HSUtH: Stories from Before the Box
by Bob G. Leeman
Summary: 06: Feir and the Gholam / the story of a girl and her pet, journeying through the Land of the Madmen.
1. Briar Patch

**_Gleeman Bob writes:_**_ this short-story takes place during the War of Power. _Briar Patch_ tells the tale of how the Last Lightborn met the Dragon and what happened when he did! there will be further stories in this vein, all set during the later years of the Collapse, the War on the Shadow, or the early years of the Breaking of the World. (of course, I would not presume to write anything about the Age of Legends itself... I would only get it all wrong, anyway!)_

_for followers of the main narrative, _Chapter 8: Away from Tar Valon_ will be posted at the end of the month of Saban. though some call it March? Shrina has had her own chapter, so now it is time for the Rennchapter! it is only fair..._

_respects to the Master Gleeman as ever, thank you for reading HSUtH and... _

_Walk in the Light!_

_GB_

* * *

><p><em>back when he had another name<em>

_Younger Brother played a game_

_he didn't win and didn't care_

_because of who was sat right there!_

_- Anonymous_

* * *

><p><strong>Briar Patch<strong>

Tro threw the count-cube, and laughed. A star – five! That slow-jo Bear wasn't eating him this time! He quickly hopped his grey Hare-stone further away from the yellow Bear-stone, which had been getting uncomfortably close.

"Your turn," Tro rather unnecessarily told the tall man who sat cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the silver-inlaid Briar Patch board.

Lews Therin Telamon smiled at the small boy with the long, white hair and strange eyes, then threw his own count-cubes. He examined the green double-circle and the blue triangle.

"Hmm," mused the Dragon, "it seems that it is time for hungry Wolf and _starving_ Wildcat to chase after that tasty Hare…"

"They will not catch her, though! They are too slow!"

The Dragon chuckled, a pleasant sound, almost carefree... though his face looked a bit lined and drawn, Tro thought, with white streaks in his brown hair, as though he had a lot of things to worry him. Tro wouldn't be worried about anything if _he_ was the Dragon! But then, there was the War. That must be a heavy burden to bear. A big concern. Always, the War. Sometimes, it seemed to Tro that the War had been going on his whole life. But then, of course, the War _had_ been going on for his whole life.

The Dragon moved his green Wolf-stone two hexes, then his blue Cat-stone three, placing it down only _one_ hex away from Tro's Hare-stone!

"Oops," said Tro.

"He is speedy indeed, that Cat! Beware, young Hare!"

_This was amazing!_

Tro _still_ could not quite believe it. He was in his rooms, playing a game of Briar Patch, not an unusual occurrence, certainly… but _this time_ he wasn't playing with stuffy old Ledrin, _as usual_, but with… _Lews Therin Telamon!_ Only the Dragon was _not_ stuffy, like Ledrin (_or_ Father!) why, he had even said the proper words at the start of the game _and_ made the traditional hand-signs!

Ledrin _never_ did that… well, Tro supposed that he said the _words_, even though he didn't like speaking the Low, but with little enthusiasm. Ledrin preferred Thousand Flowers or Frog, he did not care for violent games, even when it was just the naturally-occurring violence of animals killing and eating each other… _Da'shain Aiel_ children were not permitted to play Briar Patch and did not wish to do so in any case, Ledrin would invariably mention to Tro, each time the board was brought out.

Once, as a joke, Tro had hidden all of the pieces except for the Bear-stone. For several moves he had then gravely hopped a small salad-tomato about the board instead of his Hare, old Ledrin's Bear slowly and resolutely plodding in pursuit.

"Bears do not ordinarily eat tomatoes, Young Master," Ledrin had pointed out, after a while. Tro had stared quizzically down at the board, the green border representing the lush grass that Hare had to make her way out to, before fleeing back to the safety of the briar-patch in the centre. Only this time, no Hare!

"Yes Ledrin, this is true, but they are more likely to eat them than Wolves, Wildcats or Foxes, being omnivores. Chase that tomato, non-meat-eating Bear! I know it is not much of a meal for a big hungry bear and you will no-doubt starve to death, but do not blame me, for it is the fault of the foolish _Da'shain_ Ledrin, who does not wish for creatures to eat other creatures! Is the game not more exciting this way?"

Ledrin had sighed, picked up the tomato, and popped it into his mouth, chewing once before swallowing. "Fetch out the other pieces, Young Master, and we shall play properly," he had allowed.

But despite saying the words, Ledrin _still_ would not make the proper signs for the various animals at the beginning of the game. The Dragon did, though! And when _he_ said the words, _he_ did not mind speaking in the Low Chant, just like Father didn't. Father only spoke the Low because he enjoyed those silly, rustic music-plays, always performed in that language; crude stories where people argued about the ownership of cows and threw buckets of water over each other and sang bawdy songs about what men and women got up to together in bed... sometimes in barns as well... did the Dragon favour such vulgar entertainments also? Tro hoped not...

Tro threw his count-cube again, the white face revealing a black diamond, and breathing a sigh of relief, hopped his Hare-stone four hexes further away from the Cat-stone, following the circuitous route back to the briar-patch, still some way distant. Now he was safe. For the time being, at least. He risked another glance at his opponent.

The Lord of the Morning. Summoner of the Dominion Rods. First among the Servants. Only the damn _Dragon!_ Lews Therin Telamon... was in _his_ rooms, playing a game of Briar Patch with him! Tro wondered vaguely if he might have fallen asleep and gone to the dream-place again… though he was doing his best to avoid it since meeting the beautiful lady in the white dress, with all that silver jewellery. She had not killed him for some reason, only asked him some questions in amused, condescending tones. Even though she certainly _could_ have killed him… definitely _should have_, if she had been who he suspected she was. The Night had a Daughter, who walked in dreams...

_Lanfear! _Tro didn't think that _she_ would have had a problem killing a child, not after what she did to the Nym... Not that he was a real child of course, but when he went to the dream-place, he did not look the same… he looked like any other boy. Which was exactly the reason he had always enjoyed going there.

But no, Tro was definitely awake, even if it _felt_ like a dream! The hand that had got briefly snared in the rug-weave whilst fumbling for one of the count-cubes was wearing the Ring of the Tamyrlin. That was fairly conclusive, was it not?

This might be the _Collam Aman_, but Tro did not think the Dragon had ever actually _visited_ the College that bore his name, at least not since Tro was born… The Dragon had come to see Father, which was not all that surprising, but he had also come to see Tro, which definitely _was!_ And there were others with him, from the Big Hall. Though _they_ did not want to see Tro. He suspected that quite a few of them did not like him, did not think that he should have been made. No… not made… he was a Construct, was he not? Constructed, then.

Tro sighed, softly. If only Father had waited until he had _permission_ from the Hall, and not just the patronage of the Dragon – even _that _counted for little when one defied the Sitters, which Father had done frequently, according to old Ledrin. The Hall had said Father might make… no, Construct, the first two Lightborn… Elder Brother and Middle Brother… though they had not wanted to let him.

Tro grinned. Father said the Dragon had shouted at them, roared at them, until the Hall agreed… maybe he breathed fire on them, even! But that was silly. Dragons did not breathe fire. Tro's grin faded. It was _him_ that was the problem, he knew this. He wasn't stupid, he listened to the grown-ups sometimes whilst pretending to be doing other things. This was a little dishonest of him, like something a spy of the Shadow might do – but when Father never _told_ you about anything until long after it had happened, it _forced_ you to take such steps!

Father had Constructed him without permission… and the Hall had found out about it. They had found out about the… the _fa'compli_. It was a word in one of those ancient, dead, one-spoke-of-the-Wheel-ago languages that Father spoke, it meant to present someone with something that had already been done…

Well, Father had presented Tro to the Hall alright – he _had_ to, when they found out! – though _not _when he was still just a little baby-thing in the tubule, but only when he was already six _damn_ years old! Had Father thought that the Sitters were all going to join arms and do the column-dance in sheer joy, at the sight of Tro? A _third_ Lightborn, when they had not even wanted the first two? They had not been happy. This sudden visit was the result of their unhappiness, it seemed. Tro sighed again. Father was _really_ clever, _way_ cleverer than Tro would ever be… but at the same time, he could be so… so _damn _stupid, sometimes!

The Dragon was watching him again. He did that from time to time. It was a little disconcerting. And there was that whole _ta'veren_ thing too, Father had told him about that. Well, warned him, quietly (and rather quickly) just before the Allservants and Warmen came to arrest him and take him away. Tro had wanted to stop them, he knew he could have, there were only three Justice Ajah Brothers-

(what were they going to do? _Channel_ at him? oh-no, please don't Channel the One Power at poor Tro, he is so scared! what, nothing happened? bad luck, Justice-Servant! try again, if you wish to! still nothing? you span the webs at me and they just sort of... _melted?_ how strange! oh, by the way, Justice-Servant, have you perhaps heard of something called a _gholam?_ so guess what? even though Tro serves the Light whilst that nasty _gholam_ – whatever it even looks like – _doesn't_… well, when Father fled from under the Shadow, he brought _all sorts_ of interesting things back with him, things that he stole off of horrid old Grandfather… and as a result, me and stupid Shadow-loving _gholam_ have one thing in common – just one! can you guess what it is yet, Justice-Servant? _can you?_)

-only three Justice-Ajah and a squad of stony-faced moving melee-dummies in their silly helmets… he could take them all, he would not even break sweat. He wouldn't kill them of course, they might be marching Father away to a severing or an execution, like they did before when he escaped from the Shadowlands (_defected_, they called it) but they served the Light like he did, or like he _wanted to_ if the Big Hall would ever _let him_… he could just knock them out with a few hand-blows and pressure-holds…

Tro had gone up onto his toes a little, nostrils flaring, pupils slitting… Father had noticed, of course… he _always_ saw intents in people's eyes and could tell what they were thinking, but then, that was probably less to do with the One Power and more to do with his having had nearly seven centuries to get extremely good at reading people's faces. Father had almost _shouted_ at him, which he very rarely did.

"_Tro!_" Not 'my Son' but 'Tro.' Uh-oh! Father is displeased with Tro! Bad Tro! _Bad!_ Father lowered his voice to his more usual tones of calm certainty.

"Tro, I would very much like you to go and sit down on your bed and _wait_. A visitor will be arriving shortly, to speak with you."

Father had stroked the little finger of his left hand against his left cheek slightly, having to raise both hands to do it since they were currently shackled together with _cuendillar_ manacles. That was his sign for 'be very careful what you say.' Father had taught him about two-hundred of these signs, Tro had even made up a few new ones for them to use. Stroking your left eyelid with your right thumb meant, 'these people talking to you are stupid!' _That_ one usually made Father smile… Father was not smiling now though, he looked serious. Well, he _was_ locked in heartstone-handcuffs, surrounded by Justice Ajah. That was serious.

"There is a new Briar Patch board waiting for you in your bedroom, my Son. Why do you not play a nice _game_ with your visitor? Whilst you _talk._"

Tro took a deep breath and calmed himself, directed a last cold glare at the Justice-Servants and the squad of Warmen, who were looking at him a little warily, he thought (though not nearly so warily as they _would_ have if they had any idea what he could do to them) then bowed formally to Father, muttering;

"Honour to Serve, Chaime Kufer_ Mors_, Aes Sedai," which made Father smile a little because you were not supposed to use the name that had been taken away from him by the Big Hall. Then, Tro straightened, turned on his heel and stalked off to his bedroom like an angry… well, something that was angry. His room... where there had been a new Briar Patch board sitting on his bed, just as he was now sat cross-legged on that same bed. He didn't get new stuff very often. At least it was a really nice board… his visitor must be important… but he was still worried about Father. And himself, though much less so. He sat there awhile. Where was Ledrin?

Some _Da'shain'allein _attending the Sitters from the Hall had come and spoken to Ledrin after Father was taken away, and then the old _Aiel_ had bowed to Tro (no-one _else_ ever bowed to Tro, but Ledrin always did) murmuring, "I must go with my Leaf-Brothers now, Young Master. I shall return later." He had then done something a bit unusual for Ledrin… he had gazed down at Tro for a moment, and stroked his head like he used to when Tro was little and couldn't sleep because of the nightmares from the dream-place, smoothing the long, white hair back from his brow, a sensation which Tro always seemed to enjoy for some reason, and still did even though he was a big boy now and did not make the noise in the back of his throat like he had when he was little.

"It will be as the Wheel wills, Young Master…" Then, Ledrin had turned and walked away, blinking his eyes. Tro wasn't sure, but he thought that Ledrin had been weeping softly as he left with the other _Da'shain_. That worried him more than anything else… Ledrin must be very concerned about Father, also.

Eventually, the door had been lightly tapped upon and whoever was on the other side had politely waited – unlike the Justice-Servants and Warmen who had just rudely barged-in – until Tro went to see who it was. He sulkily pulled open the heavy oval of intricately-decorated sung-wood, getting ready to scowl his best scowl at whichever self-important Big Hall imbecile had come to ask him if he had a tail or whatever other stupid questions they had ready… and then blinked his large eyes in surprise. Extreme surprise. There was a tall, handsome Allservant standing there, light brown hair falling to his shoulders, a man with dark, sad eyes whom Tro instantly recognised. In addition to very fine clothing, the symbol of the Servants embroidered on the breast of his grey, crimson-lined cape, he was wearing a somewhat tentative smile…

"Hello, Tro," the Tamyrlin greeted him, in mellifluous tones. "With your permission, may I come in?"

Tro was faced with two options at this point. But one should not slam a door in the face of the Dragon and run to hide under one's bed, it would not be seemly… So, after straightening from the lowest bow he had ever given _anyone_, even Father, his voice so choked that he could barely manage _extremely_ inferior to _extremely_ superior inflection, Tro had invited Lews Therin Telamon into his rooms and – since it had been Father's suggestion and was, therefore, difficult to ignore – suggested that they play a game of Briar Patch.

The game went on for a time, as it always did, and then one of the hungry hunters caught Hare, as they _almost_ always did… Tro sighed, feeling sad that it was over. The Dragon was probably going to go now, he could try suggesting another game – maybe Lews Therin Telamon would like to play the Hare instead? – but Tro didn't think that he would have time. Father said he was a very busy man, and the War was not going well. Not going well at all... Tro had wept when he heard about Elder Brother… as had Father, which was strange. Tro had not even thought that Father _could_ weep!

Father had been in his Special Laboratory, leaning over one of those funny-looking metalic _ter'angreal_ whilst Tro sat on a stool at one of the consoles, doing his book-work. Father did not mind if he did it in here, so long as he was quiet. Tro had been carefully memorising a list of antidotes to the poison-compounds most commonly used by Friend of the Dark assassins, when his keen ears gradually became aware of a 'drip-drip' sound. Glancing up from his book he had, with some shock, realised that there were tears falling onto the _ter'angreal!_ But he had pretended not to notice. Father wouldn't like him to know that he had been crying… It was just after they got the news about his Big Brother, so that must have been why.

Besides, Tro was not a grown-up, not quite as tall as Father yet (though Father was a short man, admittedly) and he might be only six years old, but he wasn't _stupid_. He knew that the Dragon hadn't really come to his rooms to play a game of Briar Patch, that was just an excuse so they could spend some time together... so that he could be sure that Tro served the Light and the Blessed Creator. Which he _did_, of course! The Dragon had seemed to quite enjoy the game, though. Well, he had _won_, had he not? It was good to win, just like it would be good when they (the Forces of Light) won the War, and sent the dirty Shadow-lovers howling back to the Pit. But no, it was the quiet, patient questions the Dragon had asked here and there in the course of the game – though not enough to ruin the fun – that had been the true purpose, of course.

The Dragon had even requested that he take his gloves off at one point, though he had sounded embarrassed. Tro did not mind – he definitely _would _have minded had it been anyone _else_ who wasn't Father or Ledrin, but if Lews Therin Telamon wanted to see what he kept under his gloves then that was just fine with him. The Dragon had nodded, and then watched while he did that thing he did before slicing up one of the melee-dummies in the practice yard (_boring!_ he wanted to use his weapons on something that _moved_, something that he could _chase_… something Shadowy! melee-dummies were so _dull_, they didn't try to run away from you!)

Then, after Tro had put his gloves back on, the Dragon actually _apologised_ to him for asking to see his weapons! _The Dragon_, apologising to Tro! Using _equal_ inflection while he did so, no less! Lews Therin Telamon might be the most important man in the world – but he was also, it seemed, the _politest_.

It was the most enjoyable game of Briar Patch Tro had ever played with anyone, but like all games, it eventually had to end. In response to the red circle, Lews Therin Telamon moved his Fox-stone a single hex, then glanced at the other count-cube that again showed a blue triangle. "Your pardon, Tro," he sighed, "but it seems that Wildcat shall _not_ go hungry today!"

The Dragon then moved his Cat-stone three hexes and tapped it repeatedly against Tro's Hare-stone. He even made a few growling, eating noises! Tro giggled. Ledrin never bothered to do that!

Tro glared at the count-cube. If only it had been a circle, or a double-circle! Then Hare would still be safe. _Then_ the game would yet be going on and he could be with the Dragon for a bit longer... But no, it was a… a _damn_ blue triangle! Tro knew he wasn't supposed to say 'damn,' old Ledrin always asked him not to in that gentle way of his, but… he could _think_ it, couldn't he? That wasn't the same as saying it, not at all. _Damn blue triangle_. Hey! That was funny… he hadn't noticed before, which was kind of stupid of him, though he had only been given this new Briar Patch board today, to play a game with the Dragon… The old wooden one he always used with Ledrin only had the ordinary High numbers… but _these_ count-cubes had the ancient Root-speech numerals on them and that blue, curly-pointed triangle… it looked a lot like… Tro pulled out his vest a little, glancing down at his Light-mark, at the shimmering sigil set into the skin over his heart. Yes, it looked _just_ like it. Odd.

* * *

><p>Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, waited for the Dragon as though it were his choice to stand, as though the heavy <em>cuendillar<em> manacles he wore in addition to dark robes had been donned as some obscure fashion-statement. He studiously ignored his Brothers and Sisters, their eyes accusing as they whispered with each other. Chaime did not care, as irksome as he found it to be so regarded by those who were guests (albeit extremely unwelcome guests) in his home! He always thought of the Dragon College as _his_, for all that it was not.

His accusers. Chaime ran a cold gaze over the dozen-or-so Sitters from the Grand Hall, who were currently fulfilling that function in the most literal sense, occupying a row of ornate, crystalline chairs which filled the dais before which he stood in presumed penitence. Thirteen extremely senior Aes Sedai... those who had been assembled to _judge_ him... as if they were entitled or even _able_ to. Not one of them was capable of understanding his work, his plans. If he must be tried at all, then he should be adjudged by his peers alone... yet he _had_ no peers! _Ergo_; he should not be judged at all. _Ergo_ was a word in the most ancient of the many dead languages Chaime spoke. It meant 'therefore.'

But this _trial_ – meaningless formality at best, ridiculous farce at worst! The players in this low comedy were well-aware that he enjoyed the protection of the Dragon, they could not touch him. But that would not stop them from slapping him upon the wrist yet again, and perhaps... while Chaime felt confident of his own survival, he was concerned about Tro. Would they seek his destruction? If the boy did not win the Tamyrlin's approval, as his Brothers had... but surely the Thirdborn would not fail where the First and Secondborn had succeeded? Tro was the most human one of the lot! And he was just a child, if a rather dangerous child... surely these venerable mummers in the courtroom farce would not be _that_ petty and spiteful? The row of stern faces left Chaime feeling less than certain. They were all there, the usual Thespians...

Vora Samm Raijan representing the War Ajah, giving him the habitual poisonous stare. If looks could kill! Though on occasion, hers _could_, he had heard. From the Lore Ajah, Wassili Beidomon, sneering slightly at him. Nephew of the fool who had managed to destroy the Sharom and much of V'saine, the Collam Daan included... Mierin's lapdog, who aided her in sundering the prison of the Great L- of the _Dark One_... Did Beidomon think being of _that_ accursed kin gave him any right to sneer? It did not!

Sitting next to a scowling Oselle Sedai from the Justice Ajah, there was Solinda Sedai, of course. She was supposedly of the Resources Ajah, though everyone knew that she was actually the Light's Mistress of Spies... Intelligence Officers, Double Agents, all answered to her... which, since everyone knew it, made Chaime rather wonder who the _real_ Spymaster was? It was not _him_, that was for certain, though he had his own sources of information, of course.

Solinda Sedai was a contemporary of Lews Therin, as were most of the Sitters who ran the War and made the Big Decisions. They were all so _young!_ Barely into their third century, most of them... Solinda was giving him the usual sad gaze, as though she were viewing the unquiet, tormented spirit of someone she had once called a mentor... a friend... well, to be honest, she _was_.

And there, in the middle, presiding over this sorry affair... Latra. Chaime examined her closely for some trace of the young woman he had once known as lover and confidante, but her return stare, while neither accusatory nor condemnatory, was simply that of a stranger. Though to Latra Posae Decume, _he_ was now the stranger. It had been like that with almost all of his former acquaintances when he returned to the Light... they behaved much as though the Chaime Kufer Mors they had once known was long-dead, that the man claiming his name was an impostor. But unlike the rest of them, with Latra, this still managed to be vaguely upsetting to him...

Chaime glanced impatiently toward the massive doors at the far end of the Hall... the Hall of Servants of the Dragon College – _his_ Hall! For a little while longer, at least. Speak of the Dragon, and he will appear... but he did not. He must still be with the boy... his Son.

Tro. Not for the first time, Chaime resisted the urge to fiddle with the dagger-_ter'angreal_ that hung about his neck, something of a nervous habit. Since his wrists were manacled together, the two-handed movement might resemble the begging gesture of a supplicant. Chaime would not ask these fools and hypocrites for his Son's life... but nor would he let them destroy the boy. This was _his_ Collam, and there were many secret ways in and out, the walls riddled with unknown passages... unknown to all but him. Whatever happened, he would see that the boy escaped the retribution of the Hall. _If_ he could.

His accusers had ceased their whispered conferring and a temporary silence reigned. Chaime Kufer disliked silences as much as he disliked rules, and was equally willing to break both.

"Well, Honoured Sitters of the Grand Hall – what is my punishment to be _this_ time? Perhaps you could remove my Third Name, in censure? Oh! But I forgot... you already _did that_, did you not?"

* * *

><p>The Dragon rose from the rug, dusting himself off a bit. "Attend me if you will, Tro. There is someone whom I would like you to meet."<p>

Tro stared. The Dragon had just used _equal_ inflection! _Again!_ Well, he did not care, he was still going to use inferior-to-superior... though Lews Therin Telamon had laughed at that first, _very_-inferior-to-_very_-superior 'c-c-come in please, Dragon sir!' and told him that inferior-to-superior would be fine. Tro held the door open, nodding his head smartly like he had seen the servitors doing when they held doors open for Aes Sedai and followed the Dragon out into the large, circular reception-hall.

A high-vaulted roof, set with muted glowstones, yellow bands of light dimly traced down obsidian walls formed of massive, cunningly-interlocked stones, their dark, glassy smoothness streaked dull-red in places. The whole of the College had those walls, made from the volcano-stone quarried from the centre of the island. And the reception-hall needed to be large, for there were a great many people waiting in it.

Tro had been expecting the War-Servants and _Da'shain_, as well as the company of elite Warmen... the 'Dragonmen' encased in their shining white armour, shimmering like fish-scales. Dark eyes stared watchfully from within the snarling mouths of ornate helmets, the gauntlet clutching each shocklance fashioned with golden claws at the fingertips. They looked quite impressive, he supposed. But... there were some _Companions_ there, also! Not all one-hundred of them, only four, but that was still four more than he had ever seen before! Of course, the Dragon would never go anywhere without at least _some_ of his...

Companions to the Dragon! They all wore the sigil on the left breast of their capes, the sinuous, lion-maned creature curled protectively about the circular symbol of the Aes Sedai, pointed teeth biting scaly tail in emulation of the Great Serpent. But even without the distinctive badge of the Companions, Tro would have recognised at least three of them from the _pictures_... he had a great many pictures of the Companions in his collection.

If Tro had been able to Channel (rather than the exact opposite of that) then he would have wanted to be a Companion more than anything else. He didn't know who the youngest one was, standing off to one side, a dark, slender fellow, his long hair in a multitude of thin braids, hanging down his back. But he _definitely_ recognised the pair standing on the other side of the hall, next to the _Da'shain_ – Jaric Mondoran and Veic Shuul Savoran, the Flag-Servant! Two of the very _best _Companions! And if _that_ was not good enough, at the fore of the throng, towering over everyone else – the Right Hand of the Dragon himself!

Culan Cuhan! Light's Wrath! He looked even bigger in real life... clad in that ornate suit of gold shattercloth he always wore, so that he seemed clothed in the sun. He had _Cair Sovye_ tucked through his belt, in addition, the gleaming, golden _sa'angreal_ said to be almost as powerful as _Callandor_ itself - and looking closer, Tro realised that he was actually _carrying Callandor_, strapped to his back!

Culan Cuhan was the only one of the Companions who was smiling. The others all looked very serious. The Right Hand had bright green eyes and dark red hair hanging down to his shoulders, which were almost as wide as an Ogier's - he was bigger than Ledrin, even! He came of _Da'shain_ parentage, Tro had heard, though it was considered rude to speak of such things. So did Jaric Mondoran, for that matter... as far as he knew, they were the only two Companions born of _Da'shain _blood.

Tro noted that blonde Jaric, who kept his hair _Aiel_-short though without the tail, had several equally-tall _Da'shain_ accompanying him. Tro had heard he was very close to his Dedicated, encouraged them to call him Leaf-Brother, even… why, he had heard that he _sang_ with them sometimes, since he had a fine voice and often took part in the Singing at the Palace of his Master. Tro wished he could sing, that he could train his voice and take lessons – but his tuition was all to do with other things. Violent things, that he would do one day, when he was old enough. He felt vaguely guilty to wish to do something that didn't involve war, an activity that was so… superficial. But even so…

Tro wondered idly who the youngest Companion was, he would have to find out. He must be a new addition to their illustrious ranks? Tro had all of their names and deeds memorised and idolised them, though would have been embarrassed to admit it to Father, who would have scoffed. Ledrin knew about his secret hero-worship, but that was alright.

It was exhilarating indeed, to breathe the same air as Companions! But not so exhilarating as it _might_ have been... even the Right-Hand of the Dragon and the Flag-Servant and the others did not seem so much when one had just played a game of Briar Patch with Lews Therin Telamon! It was not fair, had the Companions been there on their own it would have been the most exciting thing he had ever seen – but alongside the Dragon, they almost paled into insignificance. But then, a golden-haired woman stepped from behind a group of tall _Da'shain'mai_ and came forward from the throng, her assured, graceful approach reminiscent of a swan's effortless glide across a still lake. War-Servants, Dragonmen, _Da'shain_... even Companions... Tro might have been expecting all of _them_ to be waiting outside... but he had definitely _not_ been expecting... it was her! It was actually _her!_

Tro's heart began to beat faster as the impossibly beautiful woman came to a halt, inclining her golden head, smiling down at him. She had features of such exquisite perfection that it even felt slightly painful to look upon them – though any man who looked away was a fool! It was much alike to staring at the sun... and that was not where the comparison ended. Her glistening hair fell to her waist in long tresses that made the purest solar rays or the finest spun gold seem merely drab and tawdry. She was clad in a glowing, white, shimmerweave gown, a rope of black pearls strung about her swan neck, the ensemble a statement of perfect simplicity. None of that loud _ter'angreal_ jewellery for _her!_ Birds and fishes and other things that looked like Year's End Soul-tree decorations!

The woman spoke – and if there was one thing more beautiful than her exquisite features or flowing, golden tresses, then it was her soft, clear voice;

"Did you triumph?" enquired the Lady Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar.

Tro was distantly aware that he had been asked something, and even more distantly aware that he had forgotten to _bow_. His mouth felt dryer than a desert and all he could seem to hear, with his keen ears, was his own pounding heartbeat!

Ilyena Sunhair turned away from the gaping, trembling boy with the strange, wide eyes, pupils expanded so that they had become perfectly circular and all but eclipsed each oddly hued iris... and addressed her husband.

"I would suppose that _you_ won the game, my Lord?"

"But of course, my Lady. The Dragon _always_ wins! Bear, Wolf and Fox went hungry, whilst ravenous Wildcat devoured delicious Hare. The count of the cubes favoured _me_."

"Typical, Lews Therin. _Typical!_"

The Lady Ilyena glanced at Tro in commiseration, shaking her perfect head sadly, but the boy was still just gawping at her, his cobalt eyes wide and staring.

Tro really _was_ dreaming now! _Ilyena Sunhair!_ He had seen her many times before, on the crystal or in 'zines... but this was her in real life, standing there – oh, Creator! – _smiling_ at him... he could smell her! A touch of fine scent, the musky perfume they made in Larcheen (she wore a _local_ perfume for the visit – nice touch, Lady Sunhair!) and another smell, clean and pleasant, like fresh-cut roses after soft rain... oh no! What was he _doing?_ he was... _sniffing_ the Dragon's wife! What had come over him? But it was so much different, seeing her, hearing her (_smelling her!_) in person – so much different from the pictures!

Tro had had a picture of the Lady Ilyena pinned-up on the wall of his room for a while, a portrait that he had carefully clipped from the pages of a 'zine... but Father had disapproved. _Why?_ It had been _tasteful_... a sideways, seated posture, turned slightly toward the crystal-capturer, head up, golden coronet lost amidst those waves of sunny hair... smiling beatifically, her children grouped around her... she seemed like a good mother, the Kin of the Dragon had looked happy... loved...

Father had acted as though it were one of those _lewd_ pictures from the _other_ kind of 'zines, like the ones he had found in the back of Elder Brother's closet that time... when it was not! Had the Lady Ilyena been reclining on velvet cushions, clad only in wispy streith undergarments? No! Posturing in some flagrantly erotic fashion, with but the silken scraps of a _cohra_-dancer to shield her modesty? Definitely not! But Father had behaved as though it _had_ been _that_ sort of picture, had made him take it down from the wall, as though it were!

Tro had kept the picture under his bed though, but old Ledrin must have found it whilst tidying away his things. Tro had liked to take it out and look at it sometimes, perhaps imagine that the Lady Ilyena was _his_ mother, that he was one of the Dragon's Kin stood around her, smiling happily... that would have been nice. But in any case, when the picture disappeared, he had presumed that the old _Da'shain_ had thrown it out. Until a few days later, when Ledrin gave it back to him, mounted in a nice cherry-wood frame that one of the Gardeners had Sung for him, a pane of clear crystalglass to protect it. Sometimes, Tro guiltily thought that however much he loved Father, he might actually love Ledrin a little bit _more_.

"A cruel game," the Lady Ilyena was saying, "and all-but impossible to win! I recall playing it as a child – I only ever returned my poor Hare to the safety of the briar-patch _once_. And you, my Lord?"

"Oh, a great many more times than _that_..."

The Lady Ilyena raised an admonishing finger to her complacent husband.

"But _of course_ you did!"

Tro knew it was rude to stare, but even so, he could not tear his gaze away. The Lady Ilyena was _very_ pretty, he thought to himself. No… she was _damn_ pretty!

When the Dragon smiled, leaning down to kiss Ilyena Sunhair, Tro lowered his eyes at the rather shocking display of public affection, but could not help glancing up again through his long eyelashes – it was impossible to remove one's gaze from that vision of loveliness for long! The Lady Ilyena smiled up at her husband, brushing a hand against his cheek, then returned her attention to the gaping boy. She ruffled his white hair.

"_You_ must be Tro!" Tro managed to nod and make a muted, croaking sound. The Lady Ilyena's smile widened. Her teeth were small and white and... and _perfect_ – as perfect as the rest of her! He wanted to stop staring, but was powerless to do so! "Goodness, such lovely eyes!" she exclaimed, before raising her delicate, golden brows in query. "Whysoever do you look on me in that way, my fine young man?"

"Because you are so beautiful, Lady Sunhair!"

Tro snapped his mouth shut, his face beginning to suffuse with blood. Had he actually _said_ that? He had! _Light!_

The Lady of the Morning laughed, delightedly. If there was one thing almost as beautiful as her face, her smile, her voice... it was her laughter.

"Lews Therin – you have a _rival!_"

The Dragon laughed also. "Shall we swordfight to decide who will have the honour of this fair-maiden's regard, young Tro?"

Tro blushes increased. He should not have _said_ that, he should have just _thought_ it, whilst providing a more suitable answer to the Lady Ilyena's question… he often did that, saying one thing and thinking something else. And he knew _why_ he had blurted that out – it was being around Lews Therin Telamon that had done it! Many times during their game, he had found himself answering one of the Dragon's occasional questions far more truthfully and in much greater detail than he had intended. It was only omitting certain things, or at least attempting to – he would never have actually dared tell a _lie_ to the Dragon! Tro always tried to be as honest as possible, it was the best policy, Ledrin had often told him... though Father had just made a snorting sound and muttered '_Da'shain!_' on overhearing this sage advice.

But the Dragon – _he_ was _ta'veren_, was he not? He could influence events around him... Father had said he was, and warned Tro not to mention it. It was very rude to talk about someone's Talent or gift or whatever it was, unless they spoke of it first. Tro did not know why, it just was. But it was unfair – he had been _ta'verened!_ It was not _his_ fault he had rudely called the Lady Ilyena 'Sunhair' to her face, it was _the Dragon's!_

At which, Tro _glared _at Lews Therin Telamon, his strange cobalt eyes narrowing a little, his oddly-shaped pupils thinning momentarily before expanding back to ovals, and muttered, "_ta'veren_" under his breath! His face crimsoned further when he realised what he had done, his strange eyes blinking up at the Dragon (who he had just sort of _insulted_, hadn't he? Oh no! They were _definitely_ going to destroy him now…)

The Dragon stared down at Tro momentarily, his mouth falling open. Tro flinched a bit (maybe he would breathe fire on him?) wishing that he could sink through the floor and down into the basements where the Darkborn lived... But then, an odd sound came out of the Tamyrlin's mouth, a sort of wheezing noise – was the Dragon _alright?_ – and suddenly, Lews Therin Telamon burst-out laughing! He even picked Tro up and held him in front of his face, staring at him in something like wonder, while he laughed. It was a pleasant sound, though not near so pleasant as the accompanying laughter of the Lady Ilyena… Culan Cuhan chuckled and even some of the others smiled.

"_Ta'veren?_" gasped the Dragon, returning Tro's booted feet to the floor with care, "you are perfectly correct, young man! I am indeed _ta'veren._ Though it has been a long time since anyone actually _said so_ to my _face_… at least… not until today!"

The Dragon smiled down at the extremely nervous boy. "I _like_ you, Tro… you say what you think and you tell the truth – I wish there were a few more like you in the Hall!" He then gestured in stately fashion with his Tamyrlin be-ringed hand at where the Lady Ilyena still stood. His other hand he raised, touching his earlobe between thumb and finger. He hummed softly for a moment, under his breath, until the Lady Ilyena put her hands on her hips and glared at him with mock exasperation. "And you are correct in _more_ than that, my boy… is she not beautiful, my Lady Sunhair?"

Tro gulped, holding the point of his tongue between his rather sharp teeth. That was it! He wasn't going to say another _damn_ word!

Ilyena glided gracefully forward and prodded her husband in the chest. "Cease teasing the poor boy, Lews Therin!" she chided, though still smiling. Then she took Tro's gloved hand in hers! The Lady Sunhair, holding his hand! _His_ hand, of all hands! "I thank you for the gracious compliment, young man. Would you show me some of this Dragon College of yours, Tro? I shall need a guide, and a protector, should anything untoward occur. Will you consent to be my escort, good sir?"

Tro nodded solemnly. He could talk now. This was different – she might only be speaking in jest, but the Lady Ilyena had still specified protection. That meant duty. It was time to be serious. Duty was serious.

"Of course, Honoured Lady Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar." Tro bowed his best bow – _finally_ remembering to! – and glanced at the Dragon. At Lews Therin Telamon. He thought that this might be the last time he ever saw him. It was.

"Farewell, young Tro. It was very pleasant, meeting you." The Dragon looked to his Companions. "Accompany my Lady also."

The Companions hesitated. Culan Cuhan went so far as to frown.

"Lews Therin," the Lady Ilyena chided, "they are _your_ Companions, not mine! Would you have them forsake their sacred oaths to protect your person?"

The Dragon scowled. "Two each," he allowed, "and that is my final offer!"

Ilyena Sunhair chuckled, and surprisingly, spoke in the Low Chant;

"_A deal, then, husband-mine!_"

The Dragon laughed, and replied in the same vulgar language;

"_A bargain, goodwife!_"

Tro gaped as the Lady Ilyena then spat – _spat!_ – delicately onto her palm, before holding her hand out to the Dragon. Who grinned, and spat lightly into his own, before they clasped their hands together! It seemed like such a... _Low_ thing to do! Only they were both laughing, so perhaps it was some sort of a private jest between them? But even so... Tro hoped the Dragon would not want _him_ to do it! But of course, if the Dragon asked him to spit on his hand, then he _would_ do it. Even _that!_

Tro would die for the Dragon, without hesitation. He had said so to Father once, and Father had frowned and looked sad for a moment, so he had made a point of never saying it again. But Tro had _meant_ it – he would go to his death gladly, if the Dragon said he should. What was a bit of someone else's spit (even the Lady Sunhair's!) on your hand compared with that? Even so, it was still a bit... disgusting!

The Lady Ilyena turned to the waiting Companions. "Please be so good as to attend me also, Jaric, and... your latest adherent... Alder?"

The young Companion bowed. "_Auldre_, my Lady," he corrected, apologetically.

"Of course, Auldre Choal, I now recall... forgive me!" and the Lady Sunhair patted the new Companion on a satin-draped arm, "but there _are_ one-hundred of you, after all. A great deal of names to have to remember!"

Tro examined Auldre Choal whilst everyone else laughed. He seemed like a nice enough fellow... the dark skin of his cheeks purpling a little – he was blushing! Tro calmed, somewhat. Reassuring to know that he was not the _only_ one who found the Lady Sunhair's presence and attention more than a little intoxicating!

"There are, in fact, one-hundred and five of them now," the Dragon informed his wife, "so I am not like to be bereft of companionship!"

Ilyena Moerelle returned her husband's gaze levelly. "_Just so long as they keep you _safe_, my darling_," she murmured, again in the Low. The Dragon sighed.

"_An oft-difficult task, milady_," Culan Cuhan muttered ruefully, in the same tongue. Jaric Mondoran eyed him flatly and Auldre Choal looked somewhat scandalised, but Veic Shuul, Flag-Servant, simply nodded, glumly.

Lews Therin glared at his Right Hand. "Are you now become my old _Da'shain_ nursemaid?" he enquired. Culan Cuhan shrugged his massive shoulders.

"You need not answer that question, dearest-Culan," expostulated the Lady Sunhair, smiling up at Culan Cuhan, "for we all know that you _are_ the very best nursemaid one could wish for, given so unruly a charge! Go with your Dragon. See to it that he does nothing... foolhardy." The Dragon frowned a little at this, but Culan Cuhan grinned and bowed, while slender, cadaverous Veic Shuul Savoran merely seemed relieved that the two of them would be permitted to protect their Dragon.

"It will be as you say, Lady of the Morning," Culan Cuhan boomed. He glanced down at Tro. "_Ta'veren!_" he chuckled, "why, you remind me of your Big Brother, lad... _he_ always came right out and said what he thought, too!"

The Lady Ilyena turned to Tro. "A tour! With so handsome an escort – how lovely! And what shall we inspect first, young Tro?"

Tro straightened from a further courtly bow. He wished Father was here, to see how good his manners were. Well, how good they were _now_, at least, now that he had finally got over the shock that had turned him into a stammering halfwit! Where _was_ Father?

"This way, my Lady of the Morning, I will show to you the arboretum, and then we may go and look at the training-library or perhaps the practice-yard…"

Tro thought it unlikely that he would need to protect the Lady Sunhair (_stop_ calling her that, even in your head, damn-it!) unlikely that any creatures of the Shadow could come here – only the Grand Hall of the Servants in Paaran Disen had Wards as powerful as the Dragon College. But some of the War-Servants looked nervous, like they thought that at any moment monsters were going to come jumping out of the walls to bite them (when all of the monsters were down in the basement, securely locked away.) But Tro knew that his home, where he had been born, had something of a reputation... And as for the threat of the _other_ monsters, the Spawn of the Shadow – did they not realise that this was the _Collam Aman?_

Father had told Tro that his College was _impregnable_ (which word he had looked-up, it meant 'unable to make pregnant' which seemed odd) but it was also – since he and his Brothers came along – very difficult for an assassin or spy to infiltrate... and if they had ever gone to _Shayol Ghul _and been touched by the Dark One, _impossible_.

Though there was that new thing horrid old Grandfather had made, that Father was very worried about though he pretended he was not… that _gholam_ thing… Tro wondered what it would be like to encounter a _gholam?_ Would he chase it… or would it chase him? There was only one way to find out. Tro did not care either way, it would just be nice if they let him go outside and fight something more interesting than a melee-dummy… and he squeezed the Lady Ilyena's hand a bit tighter while he lead her down the hall, still chattering away and answering her questions about the College whilst his mind thought about other things… rather dark things, really.

_If any of evil old Grandfather's monsters try to hurt you, Lady Sunhair, then I will ask you to turn your back so that you may not be alarmed by what you see when I remove my gloves – and then… I will tear… the Shadow-wrought… into _shreds_._

* * *

><p>Lews Therin Telamon watched his beloved wife being led away by the hand, escorted into the dark recesses of the Dragon College by the strange, small boy. Well, not <em>that<em> small, certainly not for his _age_... and young Tro had felt surprisingly heavy and solid on being picked up, more massy than he ought, as though his skeleton and musculature were somehow denser and tougher than they should be… but then, of course, they were. Lews Therin watched without qualm, satisfied that this most recent of the Constructs served the Light as loyally as did his Brothers... though he wished that he could feel quite so confident about the allegiance of their Constructor. He who they called 'Father.'

Jaric followed on after, speaking quietly with his _Da'shain _attendants, and Auldre Choal went with them. Had it been deemed necessary to end the boy's existence, that grim task would have fallen to him, as the newest of the Companions, yet to prove himself. Doubtless, he was relieved to be spared this onerous duty, given the Dragon's clear approval of this, the latest of the Lightborn. The one who had been Constructed in secret... in defiance of the Hall's gene-splicing edicts. Created without permission, by the notorious Defector.

Lews Therin grimaced, an expression that held more irritation than anger, certainly more exasperation... _Chaime!_ Genius... visionary... _fool!_ The wisest fool he had ever met, admittedly, but even so... For his part, he had always _liked_ Chaime Kufer – a good opinion which put him in something of a minority. Chaime held his respect even so, a man who had come back from under the very Shadow, bearing dark news that few had been willing to hear.

The First amongst the Servants had listened, however, listened to the confirmation of his greatest fears of what those who called themselves 'Friends to the Darkness' were doing... his worst suspicions of what preparations they were secretly making, grimly realised... all confirmed, beyond his worst nightmares.

But the Hall had not been willing to hear of... _War_. In those days, they had as little conception of what that word meant as Lews Therin had, himself. The last six years had taught them all differently. And there had been worse things happening beneath the Shadow than the slow build-up of monstrous armies to ravage humanity. Terror, distilled. Horror, encapsulated. Degradation practiced as a spectator sport, murder as a choreographed entertainment. Chaime Sedai had spoken of it all, of what he had seen. His words had been dismissed as those of one who was no longer sane. Chaime's subsequent actions had done little to alter this opinion of him.

Culan Cuhan had noted his Dragon's grimace. The Right Hand, First Captain of the Companions, seemed large and deliberate, perhaps even slow in his perceptions... but his bright, green eyes missed nothing. He leant forward solicitously, lowering his deep baritone so that the Warmen would not hear;

"You are unwell, my Lord? Might the faithful old _Da'shain_ nurse enquire as to the health of his charge? Why, surely the food on Sho-One was not _that_ bad!"

Lews Therin smiled ruefully, and Culan Cuhan turned to Veic Shuul to share the joke... some hope! Smiles were ill-suited to Veic's craggy, gaunt features. The Flag-Servant stood stolidly, swathed in robes of silvered shattercloth, the pale, folded bundle that was the Dragon Banner tucked carefully beneath one arm, a gauntleted hand propped on a bony hip. His dark eyes moved constantly, taking-in every doorway, every tapestry, every patch of shadow... the shadows, most especially.

"This place is not near well-lit enough for my liking," Veic muttered. "I much regret my staff!" Many of the ceilings were not high enough for the long, slender flag-pole that usually held the Dragon Banner's rippling length at its tip. The 'staff' was light, seemingly made of ivory, harder than _cuendillar_... and with but a small flow of Spirit, could project a shield about the user and anyone else within a twelve span radius that not even Balefire had been able to penetrate, in tests. A unique _ter'angreal_, one of the last made by Jorlen Corbesan himself, that had proved thus-far impossible to duplicate. It had preserved the Dragon's life on more than one occasion.

But Veic's precious staff remained aboard the Tamyrlin's personal Sho-wing at the Larcheen Aerodrome, along with the other four Companions who had accompanied their Dragon on this sudden inspection of the mysterious _Collam Aman_. Haindar and the others had not been happy to be left behind, but Lews Therin had considered four bodyguards to be quite sufficient. Perhaps he had erred in this?

"What ails thee, Veic Shuul?" enquired Lews Therin, "think you that Chaime Sedai's monsters shall emerge from behind yon tapestry, to trouble your Dragon?"

Veic blinked at his Dragon, shrugged, then resumed his watchful mien.

"My understanding is that the monsters are all down in the subterranean levels, locked away in the basement, as it were," Culan Cuhan rumbled. " I should very much like to see a monster," he added, wistfully.

"I have heard tell of these monsters, also, my Lord," Veic muttered softly, "the 'mistakes.' It is said that The Defector did try to make _Trollocs_ at first, but they were evil and ungovernable creations, like their cousins to the north..."

"He _has_ managed to make his own Nightrider," Culan Cuhan pointed-out, "although I would not speak disparagingly of Captain Taw, for he is a good fellow... if disconcerting!"

"_Most_ disconcerting," agreed Veic, "but I have also heard that when The Defector attempted to duplicate his success, the result was _less_ successful?"

Lews Therin winced. The 'result' had torn apart a squad of Warmen and two Aes Sedai with its bare hands, before it could be subdued.

"Chaime has had his failures, true," the Dragon reassured his Companions, "but all such were destroyed long since. You have my word on it." As he had _Chaime's_ word on it – and how he wished he could _trust_ that word!

Veic shook his head mournfully. "In that wise, my Lord, in the absence of the notorious monsters of the _Collam Aman_, I do watch indeed for Shadowmen, as there are a surfeit of shadows from which they might emerge. How I regret my staff!"

Culan Cuhan nodded. "A marked lack of glowbulbs," he observed, chidingly.

Their Dragon laughed, a short, mirthless bark. "Would you care to know what befell the last Myrddraal so foolish as to step from a shadow into _this_ place?"

"That I would, my Lord!"

"No, Culan Cuhan, you would _not_."

Unlike his Companions, this was not the Dragon's first visit to the _Collam Aman_. Lews Therin had met the first two Lightborn when they were children also, he had insisted upon it, as he had with this third Lightborn whose Construction had caused such… problems. He had liked the Firstborn, the big one, he had had a good heart, Lews Therin was very sorry to hear of it when he fell – but what a battle that had been! Worthy of song. An _enormously_ formidable warrior, like some indomitable Hero from the ancient sagas… though not very intelligent, admittedly. Wan-of-the-Howling-Axe, Hero of the Light, had not known when even he was outnumbered, had not seemed to care… a great shame. A great waste.

The War was always that... a waste. With each new level of atrocity, each further unnecessary loss of life, yet another diminishment of hope to add to so many other diminishments. But the Light yet had many Heroes, men and women unwilling to yield to the dread inevitability of the Dark One's re-emergence into the World – though with the loss of the Firstborn, one Hero less.

As for the Secondborn… even _remembering_ that meeting caused Lews Therin to shiver slightly. He did not fear for himself, he had overcome that weakness long ago, though he feared greatly for others. Ilyena and his Kin, particularly, the thought of any harm befalling them frightened him to the core. But even the Dragon had felt a little nervous to be alone in the room with that strange, slim boy, his long, white hair falling back from his pale brow, who had sat cross-legged on the floor opposite. The Secondborn had certainly not been interested in playing Briar Patch, as his Brothers had! No, whilst answering the questions in that disconcerting whisper, the boy had simply gazed at the First Among the Servants in the same way he gazed at _everything else_… _considering_... as though observing something that he had not yet decided whether to destroy. Gazing, though no eyes to gaze with.

Not that the Secondborn had been disrespectful... but all there was to him, as far as Lews Therin could tell, was hatred. Not for _him_, of course, but hatred for the Shadow, utter, all-encompassing hatred for the Dark One and his minions, his _spawn_. This 'Taw' seemed to regard any moment that he was awake (he slept but rarely, Chaime had said) wasted unless he was using that moment to scourge the Shadow.

And later, the... _demonstration_. It was very difficult to take a Myrddraal captive, but Chaime had managed somehow, imprisoning the creature within a brightly-lit, cuendillar-tiled chamber... the portal had opened and the Secondborn had walked in to join it. Lews Therin still shuddered at the recollection... the way it had reacted to his presence, what the Secondborn had done to it... the high-pitched noise, like a host of buzzing wasps, that the Shadowman made, right at the end.

Lews Therin had seen and heard many horrific things, in the long years that had seen the slow build-up of the opposing forces and in the six, devastating years of war that followed. But he did not think he had experienced anything quite so disturbing as what the boy did to the Myrddraal, or the sound of its screams. When it was over, Taw had risen, turned, bowed low to the Dragon and lower to Chaime. When he straightened, for the first time he was actually _expressing_ something with his features... he was _smiling_. It had, Lews Therin recalled, been a surprisingly pleasant smile. When the Secondborn spoke, even through the thick viewing-barrier, that voice had rustled in his ears, a chill winter wind stirring dead leaves.

"_Thank-you for letting me play with the Shadow-filth, Father." _

This one, the Thirdborn, was different… no, _Tro_ was different. The other two… they had been Constructs, pure and simple. Well, one of them still _was_, Captain Taw or 'Middle Brother' as he was known around here, was currently active within the Great Blight itself, which he rarely left! He seemed quite at home there – it was whispered that even the Myrddraal were terrified of him. Perhaps, _especially_ them. But Tro… despite the forbidden nature of his making, he was clearly much more _human_ than the other two; certainly more so than his Elder Brother, who had been like a big, friendly hound offering to fetch a stick – or a Dreadlord's head, it was all the same to him! – as well as far less _inhuman_ than the _other_ Brother… who had been and still _was_ extremely disquieting. The Firstborn had seemed somehow _less_ than human, the Secondborn something _other_ than human… but Tro, give or take his eyes and ears... his weapons… well, he _was_ a weapon. Like a Warman, yet unlike.

Lews Therin glanced at his Warmen – his _Dragonmen_. They could not be said to have straightened under his gaze, for they were already standing as straight or straighter than should have been possible, but somehow, they managed. Row upon row of dark, calm eyes staring from between the golden fangs set into their ornate visors. The Dragonmen, the Ten Thousand Teeth of the Dragon, the Warman elite of the elite, their faces blank as masks.

"We all wear masks of one sort, or another," Lews Therin mused to himself, before summoning their Officer, who knelt, one gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of his Heron-mark blade. "Dismiss your men, Canyrys."

"Yes, my Dragon." Captain Canyrys rose, his shimmering, white armour flexing with his movements. "Warmen – dismissed!" As one, most of the company of Dragonmen turned and filed from the hall. Most of them. A squad of eight remained, shorter and slighter than the others, but with the same soldierly bearing, whilst the dark eyes gazing from their visors indicated the same level of readiness to die in battle, defending their Dragon.

Lews Therin sighed. He had forgotten that these days, not all Warmen _were_ men! As though reading his thoughts, Canyrys barked at the squad of females; "our Dragon dismisses his _men_, so the task of protecting him falls to you! Do not fail!"

The War... women... bowed, before straightening with rigid precision, levelling their shocklances at their sword-girt hips and falling in to either side of Lews Therin and his Companions. Their Sergeant had a square jaw and dark, tilted eyes.

"Honour to serve, my Dragon," the Sergeant growled huskily, as she took the lead position. Finding himself surrounded by the very guards he had sought to dismiss from his presence, Lews Therin eyed Captain Canyrys censoriously. The whip-slim commander of his Dragonmen bodyguard seemed to almost smile for a moment, though perhaps this was just a trick of the light.

"Not _quite_ what I had in mind, Captain," observed Lews Therin.

Culan Cuhan chuckled softly whilst Veic Shuul, who could be said to be a little old-fashioned about certain things, made a 'tsk' sound beneath his breath. He had never approved of the decision to extend Warman selection to girls, for all that it had become necessary.

"Honour to Obey, my Dragon," Canyrys responded, bowing and departing. Though not departing very far, Lews Therin suspected, any more than the rest of the Dragon Company had... it was impossible to dismiss a Warman within sight of his duty, but he had spent years trying, even so! The side halls were no doubt filling with white-armoured, beast-helmeted Dragonmen, lining their Lord's route as surreptitiously as they did everything else – not particularly!

"Well, if you are all quite certain that I will be safe surrounded by no-less than ten protectors, here in the heart of the _Collam Aman_... then I shall go and wait upon the Sitters." The Dragon did not sound enthusiastic.

_And hear their verdict, I suppose... as if I do not already know what it will be!_

Travelling being an impossibility, since the Gatewards of the Dragon College were said to be more powerful even than those set into the surrounding walls of Paaran Disen, Lews Therin and retinue were required to make their way down a series of dark, spiralling ramps in order to reach their destination. Whilst he walked, he considered something that he had noticed about young Tro.

When Ilyena had taken the boy's hand and asked him to escort her, an immediate change had come over the lad. From a blushing, embarrassed boy, he had transformed into a capable… bodyguard, Lews Therin supposed was the best word for it. The lad had a sense of duty, as had his Brothers, and he clearly took that duty _very_ seriously. That was good.

At the foot of the final ramp, two massive double-doors, as well as one Aes Sedai, awaited them. The Sister wore a dark, hooded gown, stood before the doors as though guarding the way, her hands folded in capacious sleeves. As they approached, she looked up, the hood falling back from her brow, dark eyes fixed on Lews Therin.

"Deindre Sedai," Lews Therin acknowledged, forced to slow and then halt his pace when the Sister showed no signs of moving.

"Tamyrlin." Deindre took his arm and led him to one side, her bare feet whispering on the tiles. Lews Therin repressed the urge to sigh – what was Deindre doing here? She had not been aboard the sho-wing, certainly...

In a shadowed corner, whilst his Dragonwomen waited patiently, his Companions less patiently, Lews Therin listened closely whilst Deindre spoke urgent words behind the veil of the Privacy Web she had spun. She gave him a final, penetrating stare with those dark eyes, eyes that could see parts of the Pattern yet unwoven – then departed silently down a side corridor, swallowed rapidly by the gloom.

Lews Therin turned away, troubled, as the great doors swung soundlessly open. Naturally, the Dragon College had its own Hall, where the issues of governing this enormous hidden-_Collam_ were decided – a condensed version of the Grand Hall of Servants itself, as existed elsewhere in profusion. Any room in which more than two Aes Sedai met had the capacity to become a Hall-in-miniature. Though there was nothing particularly miniature about the chamber revealed by the open doors.

"Wait here, Sergeant." The stocky Dragonwoman nodded, her squad taking up positions to either side of the doorway, moving like deadly automatons. Lews Therin and his Companions entered the Great Hall of the _Collam Aman_ and began their slow procession toward the far end of the chamber, where the accused and his accusers waited. This was some distance away, and there was a gauntlet of sorts to run, in reaching it.

Numerous friezes decorated the dark walls to either side, each filling its own tall alcove, a touchlight set before it. The flickering holoflames picked out the carven shapes lurking within each alcove, creatures of myth, monsters with the faces of men and women... _recognisable_ faces, all. The entirety of those, living and dead, who had been branded with the title 'Forsaken.' The 'Chosen-Ones' they called themselves, some of whom had once been his enemies in the Hall during the long years of the Collapse. Others who had once been his friends. Several of the dead Forsaken whose faces were attached to the bodies of lions and vultures had fallen, not to the forces of Light, but to those of their own number who yet lived – Sphinxes and Harpies turning on each other, though bound in the same service.

This, writ-large, was Lews Therin's over-riding hope, but for his desire to see the Bore sealed once more, the Dark One's poison no longer able to leak into the world – he fervently wished that the forces of the Shadow would inevitably turn in on themselves, war against each other... that evil would devour itself, as it always did.

Culan Cuhan whistled softly as he took in the notorious sculptures. Veic Shuul confined himself to another 'tsk' sound.

"When a new Initiate at the Academy," Culan rumbled, "I recall that of all of the Instructors, they said that only old Chaime Kufer Mors had a sense of humour..."

"I remember also," stated Lews Therin softly, "but I fear that Chaime Sedai's humour seems to have taken a turn toward the dark, in the intervening years."

"It is akin to the work of a madman," Veic complained.

Lews Therin smiled. "I also remember that in my final year, the Academy received a large _Da'shain_ youth upon its roles, a clumsy young oaf who had the unfortunate habit of apologising annoyingly and profusely to whichever unfortunate he had most lately bumped into!"

Culan Cuhan grinned and spread his large hands. "Ah, but I cured myself of the apologising in time, for all that I am yet a clumsy oaf!"

"What I would not give to be young and stupid again, back at the Academy, before all of _this_," Veic observed dolefully. Culan clapped him upon the shoulder.

"Take heart, good Flagservant! Your precious staff shall, in time, be returned to you, for to once-more carry our Banner properly... and not beneath your arm, as though it were a folded rain-cape! Be not so despondent!"

Veic shrugged-off Culan's hand irritably as he always did and regarded the high, vaulted ceiling. "Of a certainty, there is room for my staff in _here_," he pointed-out, before returning his disapproving stares to the friezes, "for all that it is a drab, gloomy place, and tastelessly decorated." He seized _saidin_, splitting his webs six ways, so that a sextet of pale, glowing fireflies began to weave an intricate dance about them as they walked. The light picked out the cold, stone features attached to the monstrous forms that lined the hall, each to its alcove; faces cruel, faces avaricious, faces that simply conveyed nothing whatsoever in the way of humanity.

Mierin Eronaile in particular, her head attached to the gracefully-curved neck of a pale swan, floating calmly in what appeared to be a lake of dark fire... coldly beautiful Lanfear seemed the least human of the lot. Lews Therin eyed the all-too familiar features of a woman he had once loved, before turning away with regret. Opposite, smiling slyly, old Ishar Morrad gazed out from the mane of a lion's body, with a scorpion's tail. Aginor... Lews Therin could not help but notice that Chaime had placed the sculptures of the two Forsaken he detested the most, facing each other.

The friezes _were_ in poor taste, true, but Lews Therin recognised the motivation that lay behind them, when few others did... not an attempt to be amusing, certainly, or calculated irony, even. Hatred. Chaime wished to remind himself of the faces of those he had served alongside, albeit against his will. He would not rest until they were _all_ dead, and in the meantime, he could sustain himself by hating them. His sculptor's skill had merely provided him with an outlet for his hatred.

Lews Therin could see the Sitters awaiting him, their seated forms growing larger with each step he took. They would argue and object, prevaricate and remonstrate– when did they not? – but to little avail. His mind was made up, made up by an hour in the company of the boy, and he knew exactly what he was going to do. Though admittedly, another factor – an unexpected one – had strengthened his resolve. A factor that had been waiting for him, outside the doors of this Hall.

Some of the alcoves to either side were empty, yet to be filled, but a new frieze had been added recently, the Hall's spy had reported... yes, there it was. Lews Therin scowled. _The Netweaver_.

A spider with a man's head crouched amidst a cruelly-barbed and intricate web. The face, self-importantly solemn, was clearly that of Duram Laddel Cham. Just Duram Laddel now, of course. No, not even that. _Be'lal_. The Envious. Latest in a long line of traitors to betray the Light. His swearing to the Shadow was a relatively recent event, the wound still fresh. A noted advocate before the War, Duram Laddel had expected to be named as the new Sitter for the Justice Ajah. When Oselle Sedai received this honour, he had opted for the empty place on the High Council of the Shadow instead. The manner and frequency of the Forsaken's contention with one another ensured that such places were often made available. Graendal's recent assassination of her rival, Millisaine, had left a thirteenth seat open in any event, and Duram Laddel, Friend of the Dark, had gone to fill it... via Shayol Ghul. There were Oaths to be sworn to his new Master, before taking up such a position.

At Lews Therin's approach, the thirteen Sitters rose smoothly from their crystal thrones. "He comes, he comes," intoned Latra Posae Decume sonorously, "the Tamyrlin comes." The Sitters bowed, not particularly low, before resuming their seats. Lews Therin could not help but notice that there was no chair for him.

Chaime Kufer noticed also and turned his head, a crooked smile creasing his thin lips. "Forgive me, my Dragon," he murmured, "I would have had the High Seat brought from Paaran Disen... _had I known that you were coming_."

"Silence!" snapped Vora Sedai. Chaime sighed.

"I do not think that Chaime Sedai intends to attack us with his bare hands," Lews Therin noted mildly, then nodded to Culan Cuhan. The Right Hand seized _saidin_ and channelled. The _cuendillar_ manacles sprang open and fell to the dark, gleaming floor. Chaime might have rubbed at the weals on his wrists but opted instead for crossing his arms.

"Have you reached a verdict?" Lews Therin asked the Sitters..

Latra Sedai's dark eyes were calm, serene. "We defer to your ruling, Tamyrlin... with regard to the accused."

Lews Therin returned her gaze levelly. "And with regard to the boy?"

"The _abomination_," Vora Sedai muttered. A few of the other Sitters frowned.

"The _unauthorised_ Construct," Beidomon Sedai qualified, smoothly.

"And was your _uncle_ given authority to conduct _his_ experiment?" Chaime enquired. Beidomon scowled.

"The accused will stand silent!" shouted Vora Sedai, half-rising, fingering her pale, twisted _sa'angreal_, clearly wishing to join-battle, with Chaime Sedai or anyone else who aroused her ire, even here in the Hall of the _Collam Aman_.

Lews Therin spoke. "Howsoever the manner of his coming into being, we are now presented with a third Lightborn – and there is a War to fight. Let us use him to good effect, for his Brothers did not disappoint in that regard!"

Solinda Sedai shook her head. "The Construction of the first two Lightborn was sanctioned by the Hall – this was not. The illegality of the act stands."

"He was made in secret, without permission!" Oselle Sedai's voice was coldly angry. "I fear that these Lightborn cannot be trusted any more than their rebellious..." her dark eyes turned upon Chaime, and narrowed; "..._creator_."

Chaime Kufer smiled thinly, inclining his head as though accepting praise.

"_Constructor_, surely," stated the Dragon for the accused, since Chaime was unlikely to make further outbursts – Vora Sedai was perfectly capable of gagging him with a web of air, and they both knew it! "There is but one Creator after all, Oselle..."

"One Creator, aye, Tamyrlin... and a single Dark One standing in opposition to him, in all the many incarnations and possibilities of the Eternal Pattern..." Oselle turned her disparaging gaze back upon the accused. "And which do you truly serve, Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai? The Light-bringing one who made us all, He whom you seek to emulate – or the one whom I suspect remains the 'Great Lord' in your heart, the Dark One who you swore your oaths to?"

Chaime Kufer glanced at Vora Sedai, raising an eyebrow – she nodded curtly. "Whom do I serve, Oselle? In truth?" He pointed a long-nailed finger. He pointed at the Dragon. "There stands the Lord of the Morning – ask _him_ who I serve!"

Lews Therin frowned, the Sitters stirred uncomfortably, and eyed their Dragon whom they also, ostensibly, served. Chaime ceased his pointing, instead curling his fingers about the dull-bladed dagger-_ter'angreal_ that, as ever, hung against his chest.

"No-one can walk in the Shadow so long that they may not return to the Light... provided that the correct sacrifices are made, and I have sacrificed _much_, Honoured Sitters of the Hall, much indeed!" Chaime ran his dark, almond-shaped eyes over the assembled Aes Sedai with a touch more than the usual contempt, before shrugging and smiling coldly at his interlocutor. He lifted the dagger-_ter'angreal_ on its chain, so that it swung gently back and forth before him. "Besides, dearest Sister, do you think that were I yet untrue, sworn to _Shai'tan_..." – some of the Sitters stirred uncomfortably, one did not readily use _that_ name – "do you actually imagine that I would be stupid enough to wear _this?_"

"Nobody thinks that you are stupid, Chaime," Lews Therin pointed-out, to break the uncomfortable silence, "quite the opposite, in fact! We rather consider that you, my old tutor, are far too clever for your own good! That is why we are all gathered here today."

"I would not readily hear my allegiance questioned again," Chaime muttered, resentfully.

"Then do not give us _cause_ to question it. This is not _your_ War, Chaime – it is _our_ War. The Hall's War! You cannot oppose the Shadow alone, in your own fashion, according to your own whims – upon the battlefield, such independence from command can only lead to disaster. We do not ask for your consultation with us, for your obedience – we _demand_ it." The Dragon waited.

Chaime Kufer scowled. "You have it," he said finally, grudgingly.

"Good!" Lews Therin smiled. "No-one doubts the contributions you have made... that your Sons have made..."

Chaime was not mollified. "Had I been permitted to _duplicate-_" he began to say, and Beidomon snorted loudly.

"The Firstborn? And breed an army of giants to smite the Shadow?"

"An army of _Heroes_, to _destroy_ the Shadow!" retorted Chaime.

Solinda Sedai shook her head sadly, ignoring poisonous levity in the face of stark truth. "The First Lightborn was tested in battle and failed, which is why no more were... Constructed. You know this, Chaime."

Chaime scowled. "Eldest Son did not fail, he was _failed_. Failed by you all." He locked eyes with Vora Sedai for a long moment. "_You_, most especially."

Vora Sedai chose to ignore this. "And what of the abomination?" the War Ajah Sitter demanded. Chaime's scowl deepened.

"What of him?" Lews Therin's voice was calm.

"It must be destroyed." Vora Samm Raijan's voice was cold, implacable.

Lews Therin Telamon sighed.

"I have just played a game of Briar Patch with the 'abomination,' as you so charmingly name him. Why, I have not played it since _I_ was his age! And I enjoyed his company, as I hope that he enjoyed mine. There will be no destruction of anyone... or anything. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

The Tamyrlin regarded the Sitters gravely. Latra Sedai glanced at the others, opened her mouth, began to speak-

"I have fought the Shadow for six long years!" Lews Therin Telamon roared, "I have looked into the very _centre_ of the Darkness!" His dark eyes held theirs, before he spoke again, in more measured tones;

"If the boy were a _monster_, do you think that _I would not know it?_"

The Sitters' eyes were wide, for the most part, their faces betraying shock at the outburst, though Latra Sedai's features might have been carven stone, as though she gazed at him from one of the alcoves. But they did not speak... what could they say, after that? It was good to occasionally remind these proud Servants of the Hall that while he was First among equals, he was also _the Dragon!_

Lews Therin continued; "he is but a boy, that is all. And a pleasant, respectful, well-behaved boy at that. For the most part. Though when he is ready to serve the Hall, I do not think that the Shadow will have so good an opinion of him!"

The Sitters regarded him, stolidly. Lews Therin sighed.

"He is a child, no different from any other child in all of the most important respects." The Dragon's visage became grimmer and even Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai, quailed a little before his sheer presence. He was the most powerful _ta'veren_ to have been born in three thousand years, and Lews Therin Telamon was long accustomed to _using_ this. "If you see fit to challenge my decision in the Hall then do so, but know that I will exercise my veto... and if any attempt to harm the child, I will see them _severed_. And before you condemn my decision…

"Ask yourselves _this_… the Shadow kills children. Do _we?_"

* * *

><p>The slow exit of the Sitters was slowed further by pauses for disparaging gestures at the Friezes of the Forsaken, by overt expressions of disgust. Chaime smiled thinly. An artist should always seek to provoke some kind of a <em>reaction<em> – even an adverse one!

"Well," said the Dragon, "that went better than I had anticipated."

"It did, my Dragon?" Chaime grimaced. "And my punishment on _this_ occasion?"

"I think that you already know, Chaime."

"You are taking the College away from me."

"I am not. The _Hall_ is. They are wary of you, down here, breeding your..."

"Abominations?"

"Creations. They want you nearer the Capital, where they can better keep an eye upon you."

_Where they can more easily spy on me..._

"And what of the _Collam Aman?_ Will you give this place into Beidomon's charge? I know he has long-envied me the facilities here..."

The Dragon shook his head. "The College will be closed. And sealed."

_For all time._

Though he did not actually say it, the Dragon's meaning was clear. It was over, then. It was all over. Chaime scowled at the diminishing Sitters, then returned his attention to his patron. "What of Tro?"

"A nice lad. I shall send him a present."

"What of his _fate?_"

"The boy will not be harmed," the Dragon assured him, "he is quite safe. Continue with his training."

"I did not make him to be _safe_, but to ensure the safety of others!"

"A task he will one day perform admirably, I am sure. Though I can only hope that the War will be over before he is of an age to join the fighting."

Chaime snorted. "Indeed, it may well be over, for judging by the way the War is being prosecuted by the Hall... we will have _lost_ to the Shadow, by that time!"

"Harsh yet even-handed with your condemnation, as ever, Chaime!" Lews Therin sighed. "Though a not-altogether unfair assessment of _some_ of them... the Peace Faction, in particular, causes me concern. But Solinda, at least, appreciates the gravity of the situation. As does Latra Sedai... her people are working on something, even now-"

"The _Choeden Kal!_" Chaime sneered, "two great hammers to strike the Shadow between them – and crack the World like a nut, in so doing!"

Lews Therin smiled. "Your sources of information are impeccable, as ever."

"As are the Hall's, it would seem – and I was so careful! However did they-"

"_Chaime!_"

The Dragon shook his leonine head slowly from side to side.

"Chaime, do you think me a fool? I am no fool. Not in the last century, at least... not since I met Ilyena."

Chaime smirked. He had _introduced_ them! The Dragon frowned accusingly.

"You _leaked_ the information, you _wished_ to be found-out. To let the cat out of the bag! You knew this day had to come, when you must needs reveal the Thirdborn to the Hall... so you brought it about yourself, trusting in the Dragon's wing to shelter beneath, yet again!"

"Do Dragons _have_ wings?"

"They do if I _say_ they do!"

Chaime lowered his hand from the dagger-_ter'angreal_ that he had begun to fiddle with. A sure sign of guilt, he should really stop doing it. "Very well," he grudgingly admitted, "I allowed an Apprentice who I knew to have been planted here by the Hall, a young fellow named Kodam, to overhear certain-"

"Chaime, it does not matter how the _Hall_ found out about the Thirdborn, for I knew of him already. And have done for some time, in fact."

"How... how did you know?"

"I know because Deindre Sedai told me. She knows... because she is Deindre Sedai."

"Deindre! And they call _me_ mad. I saw her, loitering outside, awaiting you. What did she Foretell this time?"

"Something about your 'Son.' The Thirdborn. He will be needed, apparently, though Deindre cannot say quite how or when. If you wish to know more, ask her upon your own account, although I misdoubt not that you will receive a comprehensible answer!" The Dragon lowered his voice, though his Companions stood well out of ear-shot.

"Deindre Sedai often whispers to me of madness, you know. There will be a Time of Madness, says she, but the visions are clouded and unclear, as though half-glimpsed through the miasma that seeps from the Dark One's prison... she does not know when this time will come, only that it will be terrible indeed." The Dragon lowered his voice further, concern and confusion vying with each other, musing as much to himself as to Chaime. "Madness! Inevitable, she thinks... unless I can avert its advent... _if_ I can..." His tones became confiding. "...Deindre warns me to be not over-proud. To put aside _Callandor_, even, for fear I might seek to challenge the Creator with such power! In her visions, she oft sees a great, smoking mountain in my future... the tomb of all hope..."

The Dragon shook his head wearily, and for a moment Chaime saw the mask slip. Saw not the Dragon, not the Tamyrlin or the First among the Servants... he saw a man, a man near-crushed by his burdens, a man who carried the hopes of the Light upon his shoulders. Because it was what he had been born to do. Because there was no-one else who could do it.

"Heavier than a mountain, my Dragon," Chaime whispered.

The Dragon collected himself, eyed Chaime ruefully.

"Prophecy is one thing, duty quite another. You have gone against the authority of the Hall for the last time, my friend. You may continue at the Black College, but you will close your affairs here… and end the Program. Effective immediately."

"I would suppose that the Subsidiary Program is _also_ cancelled?"

"No... no, you may continue with that."

"So... my most important work lies before me, at the _Collam Doon?_"

Chaime's voice was bitter. The Dragon smiled. Chaime was never entirely certain why it was that Lews Therin undoubtedly _approved_ of him, of his work, when so many others absolutely did not. But for some reason, he _did_. Useful to have such favour – but undeniably provoking in its sheer mystery! He had never liked to not know things. The Dragon's smile became melancholy.

"Your most important work? Perhaps… Chaime, we have an acquaintance in common. Do you recall Onani Sedai?"

"Yes, of course. We were Instructors together. I saw him last year."

"I saw him last week."

"Oh. How was he?"

"Dead. _Very_ dead, I am sorry to say. Onani Tsang, Aes Sedai, fell from the jumper when the Draghkar made their suicide-attack... a pack of Darkhounds caught him before we could circle back. The Shadowdogs... _savaged_ him, before we could kill them. Healing failed, as it almost always does in these cases." The Dragon lowered his voice, something implacable and terrible in his eyes, the dread certainty that the Shadow had come to fear.

"Continue with the Subsidiary Program. Make your Hound of Light, Chaime. I am eager to see what it can do to the Darkhound packs."

"Since you put it like that... I will."

Chaime sighed. Poor old Onani... and he had always been very _fond_ of dogs.


	2. The Tale of the Nightwatcher

_**Gleeman Bob writes:** yay! a short story that is actually SHORT! only 3,000 words, five times shorter than my supposedly short stories usually are, a mere ten pages! double-spaced, at that! see, the foolish Gleeman can curb his outrageously overlong prose sometimes... _

_this tall tale tells the story of how the legend become a myth of the Nightwatcher came into being... which reminds me - SPOILER ALERT! ideally, you should read Chapter 9: Below the Tomb BEFORE you read the Tale of the Nightwatcher, but it is not an ideal world, after all... I am not the boss of you... so do whatever you want! and that last chapter WAS kind of long... it was not supposed to be... Parts I & II were only 15,000 words each, I was doing well, but Part III ballooned like a balloon-animal and then I realised that I would have to add a Part IV and began to make whining noises and to pound my head against the laptop... _

_but that is all part of the fun of writing Wheel of Time fanfiction! hey, and at least I gave all of those parts stylish Old Tongue names! anyway, the moral of the story is that we should all be good and behave honourably or the Nightwatcher shall not trouble to watch over us whilst we sleep... _

_Walk in the Light! _

* * *

><p>"<em>...that is strange," observed the Nightwatcher, "I did not know that there existed <em>blue_ fruit in the world."_

"_Thth!" lisped the informative snail, "not tho loud – the Gianth will hear you!"_

_[extract taken from – 'The Nightwatcher in the Gardens of the Fire-Giants' – author unknown]_

* * *

><p><strong>The Tale of the Nightwatcher<strong>

The _Aiel_-children were too young to have fully accepted the Covenant into their hearts and souls, so they were a little nervous, rather than fully acceptant, regarding their imminent deaths. Outside, they could hear the bestial howls of the monsters as they slaughtered their parents, who had formed a ring around the armoured jo-car, using their bodies in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable. Finally, silence, just low snarling. And crunching, eating-noises. The thick door of the jo-car was firmly closed, if unlocked, but one of the turrets had been left slightly open and these hideous sounds drifted down to them through it.

The _Aiel_-children waited for whatever the Wheel had in store for them, staring calmly and resolutely at the door that the last adult had closed firmly after swiftly herding them all inside. For a time, nothing happened. Then; slow, heavy footsteps approaching. The handle twisted and the door was roughly pulled open.

A big, wolf-faced Trolloc stood there. It looked at the _Aiel_-children with its horribly human eyes and grinned, running a long tongue over sharp teeth, the matted hair on its muzzle dark and sticky with blood. It had eaten its main-course. Now, it wanted dessert. Strange, that these human brats were just looking at it wide-eyed, and not screaming and crying with terror, as might be expected…

A low thump on the roof, as though something had landed there. Some of the _Aiel_-children glanced at the armoured ceiling above. The Trolloc did not seem to have heard, it gripped either side of the doorway and pulled itself up, crouching, framed there. It was drooling, and it stank. They watched quietly, infinitely calmer than children not born and raised as _Da'shain _would have been, in such a situation. But even so… they just hoped that it would be over quickly.

"_Beastman_."

The voice came from above – the Trolloc leaned back and looked up, startled. A booted foot took it full in the face with great speed and presumably, force, as the _Aiel_-children clearly heard the monster's neck snap. The Trolloc fell away, crashing to the ground, and they watched as a dark shape swathed in fancloth dropped lightly down to stand squarely before the open door of the armoured jo-car. Shielding them.

The other Trollocs looked up from their feast and roared angrily, but the Warman in the fancloth simply ignored them, glancing swiftly over his shoulder at the _Aiel_-children. He had strange blue eyes, that seemed to glow in the dark a bit.

"Stay there, _Da'shain_," he told them, pulling off his gloves, then slammed the armoured door closed. There was lots of noise after that, the savage howls and agonised screams of Trollocs, interspersed with the occasional wet, slicing sound.

At one point, the Warman's voice could be clearly heard, shouting; "and where do you think _you_ are going? _Come back here, Shadowfilth!_" The sound of running feet diminishing, a final Trolloc scream, some distance from the armoured jo-car. Then, silence. Approaching footsteps, though much quieter than the Trolloc's had been.

The _Aiel_-children watched as the handle twisted and the door swung slowly open again. The glowing-eyed Warman in the torn fancloth (he had a strange metal badge on his chest, underneath) stood there awhile, looking at them. He looked sad. Then, he scrambled up inside.

The _Aiel_-children flinched back against the armoured walls, something they had not troubled to do for the Trolloc. Their parents had told them that as part of keeping the Covenant they must avoid Warmen, for though they fought for the Light, they were tainted by what they did. 'If you battle with monsters, you become a monster in so-doing,' went the ancient adage. Which sort of meant that Warmen were monsters also, did it not?

This Warman seemed a little different from the other Warmen though, apart from his odd eyes. He wore the fancloth poncho and _cadin'gai_ of a Warman-scout, a mantle and veil of the same colour-shifting material draped about his broad shoulders, and like the scouts did, had smeared streaks of dark camo-oil on the bare skin of his upper arms and lower legs, with more in a broad stripe across his strange eyes... but unlike a scout, he had a black headband stretched tightly about his brow, pure white stubble lining his skull. Added to which, he was smiling at them in a reassuring way (though his teeth looked rather sharp) and the _Aiel_-children had never seen a Warman _smile_ before!

"Do not fear, little _Da'shain_, help will arrive presently."

The Warman-scout, if that was what he was, had a nice voice, husky yet melodic, if he had been born _Da'shain Aiel_ and not chosen-out at the age of ten to be a Warman, he might have sung the seeds well indeed. He was also liberally spattered with dark blood, and in addition to his strange eyes, had black, shiny claws at the ends of his powerful, thick fingers, instead of just ordinary nails. They seemed to disappear up inside, you could see them, under the skin.

The Warman realised they were staring at his hands, flinched a little, then reached for the belt of his _cadin'gai_, but it seemed that what he looked for was not there. The Warman (though the _Aiel_-children were no longer sure if he _was_ a man, regardless of whether he made war on the Shadow) closed the armoured door of the jo-car, then gazed at them awhile with those eerie, blue eyes, before sitting down.

* * *

><p>N'aethan sighed as he opened the door of the armoured jo-car and examined the contents… the <em>Da'shain<em> should never have been up here, but where their _Aes Sedai_ went, then so did they… but bringing their _children_ so near to the Northborder! He found himself feeling guilty gladness that the self-important Governance Ajah Sitter who had come to review the troops was dead also, killed in the Shadowman ambush earlier… it would not have been right for her to survive the massacre of her _Da'shain_, who she should have refused permission to attend their _Aes Sedai_ and left behind in the relative safety of Paaran Disen. _Especially_ their children. It was an _Aes Sedai's_ responsibility to protect her _Da'shain_ from the harm they could not – _would not_ – protect themselves from, just as it was his duty to protect the _Aes Sedai_ in-turn.

N'aethan was feeling very relieved that he had got here in time (though he wished it had been in time to save the others) because, while the Creator-knew he was well-accustomed to seeing dead Citizens, the sight of murdered children always made him feel very sad indeed… sometimes, he would even find himself weeping over it later, when the Warmen were not around. The Warmen never cried, or smiled, or laughed, or did anything like that – they seemed to be even less human than _him_, sometimes!

And here were these _Aiel_-orphans. Other _Da'shain_ would care for them now, he supposed. There were a dozen of the poor things, crammed into the back of the armoured jo-car, wearing the smocks and leggings that _Aiel_-children wore before they were old enough to put on the _cadin'sor_, ribbons in the red-gold hair of the little girls. It was very strange, these children had just heard their parents being brutally slaughtered and devoured, right outside… ordinary Civilian children would be catatonic at this point, if they were not still screaming with terror, sobbing their eyes out – but these were _Aiel_-children, so they just sat there, cross-legged, their little faces solemn. Acceptant. Leaves on a branch. Fully prepared to go with whatever the winds of the Pattern intended for them, no matter how awful that might prove to be…

N'aethan knew that he was a brave man (or a brave monster, at least) and he always did his best to be courageous, though he had been scared when he fought the _Gholam_… but compared with a _Da'shain_, even a child-_Aiel_, he was little more than a trembling coward! They had such _courage!_ If not for the Covenant, they would have made formidable warriors… he had unwisely said so to Kiam Sedai once, during one of their infrequent _tcheran_ matches, and she had given him a look of _such_ disgust... well, that was Kiam, after all, she held strong opinions on the subject. Why, the _Da'shain_ were the only people she ever actually bothered to be_ nice_ to!

At which point, N'aethan abruptly came to the realisation that the _Aiel_-children now looked a little _less_ accepting of things than they had done… that they were all staring at his _hands_. He had forgotten to put his gloves back on, after wiping them clean… _stupid!_ (The excitement of killing Shadow-wrought often made him forget things, or act foolishly, it was a little like being drunk, really. _Or_ the way he felt after he chewed some catnip.) He reached for his belt, but the shatter-cloth gloves were not there, they must have fallen out while he was chasing that last Beastman… even were he to put them on now, it would still be too late, they had seen, they were all staring. Poor little mites… after what they had just been through, _now_ they were shut inside an armoured jo-car with a weird-eyed black-clawed man-monster! They were _not_ having a good day… Perhaps he should go back outside, and Shield them from there? But they might follow him out and he definitely did not want them to see what had become of their parents…

The _Aiel_-children continued to stare at his claws, wide-eyed, though had he not forgotten about the gloves, they would probably just have been staring at his eyes, in any case. Even if he _did_ leave, they would doubtless wonder about it, maybe even have nightmares… they were only children, even though they were _Da'shain Aiel _with far greater control over themselves, and he didn't want them to be stuck with an extra bad memory on top of the other events of this horrible night… N'aethan supposed he owed them some sort of an _explanation_, at least. He was going to have to make something up…

N'aethan closed the door to give them all more protection (he could not sense Shadowmen, or Draghkar either, but there might be more Beastmen about, even though he had not smelt any) and sat down, cross-legged. Tucking his hands neatly behind the front flap of his fancloth poncho. He smiled at the _Aiel_-children, though not _that_ widely, so as not to expose his teeth too much.

Clearly, it was time for a story…

* * *

><p>The <em>Aiel<em>-children eyed the unusual, clawed Monsterman, waiting. Was he going to eat them, like the Trollocs had eaten their mothers and fathers? He had funny eyes and his teeth were quite pointy but it was definitely the _claws_ that were the most monstery thing about him, this strange Monsterman who was dressed like a Warman-scout... perhaps he had devoured a Warman and stolen his garments?

"You look at my hands, children," the Monsterman said to them softly, in his husky voice, "and the black claws upon them. Do not be alarmed, for they are but the claws of Tashanda…"

The _Aiel_-children continued to stare at him, though with perhaps a touch of curiosity in their unblinking, light-coloured eyes.

"Who is Tashanda?" one of them asked, eventually. The other _Aiel_-children moved a little closer, to better hear the Monsterman's answer.

"Who do you think? Why, Tashanda is the King of the Cat-Demons, naturally!" The Monsterman said this with an odd, mewling laugh and a toss of his head, as though anyone should know it.

"What is he, this King of the Cat-Demons?" prompted another _Aiel_-child.

"Do you not know, little-one? He is a very bad… Cat-Demon, the son of the old King, and he lives in… Cat Mountain, with his cold-hearted wife Tashandra."

The _Aiel_-children looked at each other, then back at the Monsterman.

"Who is she?"

"Tashandra is the _Queen_ of the Cat-Demons, of course! If you are the wife of a King, then that makes you a Queen, even if you _are_ a nasty old Cat-Demon!" And the Monsterman laughed again, scornfully.

The _Aiel_-children thought about this for a while. "Why, then, do you have King Tashanda's claws upon your hands?" enquired one, finally.

"That is a very good question! And the answer is – to claw the Shadow with!" The Monsterman's tones became confiding; "you see, children, I wished to fight for the Light, but did not want to use a stupid shocklance and since I am a Shieldman and _not_ a Warman, I do not have the right to wear a sword on my hip…" he sighed, then shrugged "...besides, it is not good to use these weapons, as you know, _Da'shain_."

From his seated posture, the Monsterman – no, the _Shieldman_ – bowed to them, leaning forward with precision before straightening. He must be a Shieldman and not a Monsterman, like he had said, for if he was a monster, he would surely have eaten them by now... and besides, monsters did not tell stories.

"Honour to those who keep the Covenant," the Shieldman added, politely.

The _Aiel_-children nodded in acknowledgement, this was something they could certainly agree upon with this strange Shieldman in the fancloth who had black claws and funny eyes. He continued with his tale;

"I was unsure what to do so I asked the Creator and He told me what, like always. The very next day, I went to Cat Mountain and I challenged King Tashanda to a big fight. We duelled for a long time, right in front of his mountain, while all of the other wicked Cat-Demons sat around us in a big circle and watched and waved flags and cheered. It was a hard fight. Tashanda was strong – but I was stronger! Tashanda was fast – but I was even faster than _that!_ And so I won, and old King Tashanda had to agree to give me his sharp, black claws so that I could go and use them to scratch the stinky Beastmen into little tiny bits!"

The Shieldman briefly raised his hands and mimed doing-so. His thick fingered, clawed hands seemed to blur in front of him for a moment, almost too fast to see. The _Aiel_-children gasped. He tucked his hands back behind his poncho.

"And _then_, do you know what happened? King Tashanda ran back to his Throne Room, deep in the heart of Cat Mountain, running _without_ his claws so he was slipping around on the smooth elstone tiles, with me chasing after, running right behind him, right back to where Queen Tashandra sat in her favourite sung-wood chair, playing a game of _tcheran_ with another Cat-Demon – and _winning_, as usual! But she looked up when we came in and instantly saw how upset her husband was – he was crying and moaning because I had beaten him so bad and taken his claws! And Tashandra_ glared_ at me with her scary, glowing, cobalt-coloured eyes, which then narrowed alarmingly!"

The Shieldman scowled, his pale brows drawing down, and his pupils shrunk to slits for a moment. The _Aiel_-children made some 'ooh' sounds. The Shieldman grinned.

"What did Tashandra do?"

"Did the Queen become annoyed?"

"Was she angry with you?"

"Yes, _very_ – she hissed and spat at me and called me 'Lightborn' to my face! Then she challenged me to a game of _tcheran_, which I won (because she was overconfident) and _then_ she became _really_ angry so we duelled each other too, right there in the Throne Room, though it was _much_ harder to beat Queen Tashandra than the King, let me tell you! That woman fought dirty!"

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, nothing... _and_ she could _fly_, Tashandra could, she kept cheating by whizzing about over my head in a very distracting manner... but I beat her in the end, anyway!"

"What did you do then?"

"What do you think? I made the Queen of the Cat-Demons give to me her eyes. I wanted to be able to… watch the night, so that I could see the Shadow coming and protect good children... not _bad_ children who disobey authority and do not eat their greens, but _good_. You are all good children, are you not? You certainly seem like good children to _me_."

The _Aiel_ girls and boys wasted no time in assuring the Shieldman that they were, indeed, good children. He nodded approvingly, then raised a hand and made a sign in the air with one of his claws, like an upside-down triangle.

"Then I shall watch over you also. And all of the other _Da'shain Aiel_-children too, for so long as I live. Let there be a little-covenant between us – if you are good, then I shall watch over the shadows of the night and protect you while you are sleeping. If you have bad dreams, remember that if any Shadow-wrought monster tries to harm you, they will have _me_ to deal with… me, with my sharp claws and my eyes that see in the dark, which I took off those wicked Cat-Demons all those many years ago."

The _Aiel_-children nodded, solemnly.

* * *

><p>Outside, N'aethan could hear the low whine of the jumpers approaching. About time too! When one of his scouts reported that the convoy was being attacked, the War-Sisters and Warmen would have set out from the Border-fortress immediately, but he had already been out here by then, mopping-up the last of the Shadowmen. One of the <em>Aiel<em>-children raised a small hand, asking;

"Did not Queen Tashandra _mind_ that you had taken her eyes?"

"Hmm? Oh... well... of course she did! She minded very much! Her Royal Highness, Tashandra, she _shouted_ at me in an angry way and shook her fist and waved her twisty, ivory wand in the air, hoping to blast me into a million pieces with the One Power – but I was long-gone from Cat Mountain by then, trotting off down the road feeling rather pleased with myself, though she did not know it because she could not _see_ anything… I did not leave her _my_ eyes in return, you know!"

"Where, then, are _your_ eyes?"

"I keep them in a box under my bed. But though blind, Queen Tashandra still has her husband King Tashanda to help her to get about, and yet has _her_ claws to cut up his meat for him, so I expect that it all worked-out well for them in the end…"

N'aethan could hear the jumpers landing outside – now, how to get the children on-board without them seeing what was left of their parents? Beastmen always made such a mess… even more of a mess than he had made of _them_.

* * *

><p>The Shieldman did not notice, but the <em>Aiel<em>-children were all watching him very closely. He might have meant it as a joke, but that did not matter. They were going to take the little-covenant seriously, and tell other _Da'shain_ children about it, tell them that they must be good also. It was well to know that this strange (yet nice) Shieldman would be protecting them while they slept, and watching over the night…

* * *

><p><em>sleep well and wake!<em>

_GB_


	3. Mother & Tro

_**Gleeman Bob writes: **__this story takes place between the previous two stories, it is set in the early years of the Breaking of the World, shortly after the Lightborn became Shadar Nor's bodyguard. sorry about the confusing way my short stories jump back and forth in time, but that is just how I wrote them! _

_Walk in the Light! _

* * *

><p><strong>Mother &amp; Tro<strong>

_Flip_.

The quiet turn of a page in the dark. Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai, sat up straight in bed.

_Flip._

Latra frowned. "What are you doing down there? I keep hearing pages turn."

"Sorry, Mother. Should I put the book away?"

"Book? How can you read? It is pitch black!"

No answer for a moment, then; "I can see fine, Mother."

Was that a soft sound, like a repressed chuckle? What a strange young fellow the Hall had sent to be her bodyguard this time! Latra lay back again, trying to sleep. It was difficult to sleep when the world was falling apart around you and everyone expected you to be able to do something about it. And she wished that her skill at doing something about it had not angered the Shadow to the point where she could not even sleep alone in her bedchamber. Latra eventually began to drift off again…

_Flip_.

The page turning again. _Flip_. He was clearly doing it as quietly as possible. _Flip_. But she was concentrating… _flip_… on the sound now… _flip_… and could not help but hear. _Flip_… whatever he was reading, he was reading it very _fast!_

After a while, Latra waved a hand over the glowbulb beside her bed until it mutely pulsed to life. She glanced at the end of her bed. No sign of anything.

"Tro?"

A thin face with large, cobalt coloured eyes peeked over the end of her bed, a black skullcap that matched his pyjamas tucked down over the ears, locks of white, silky hair poking out from beneath.

"Mother?"

He had a pleasant voice, this strange boy whose horrid Father had refused him permission to attend her. That was the main reason she had accepted his offer of protection, because his Father had not wished it. That had to count for something.

When she didn't say anything, the Lightborn – the _Last_ Lightborn, now that his Middle Brother was as dead as his Eldest – stood with lithe grace, glad in black silk pyjamas, soft gloves and slippers of the same colour. He bowed low, one hand holding a book, the other on the hilt of an imaginary sword that he was not permitted to wear – though she had heard he had earned his Heron – for he had no rank or title other than _Shadar Nor's_ latest and (no-doubt) short-lived bodyguard. It was not a job that any Warman had ever lasted in for long, it was much more dangerous than patrolling the Blight. The assassins came every day, sometimes. There were so _many_ of them… though often, it seemed that they were outnumbered by the spies, the undercover agents. The Shadow was so… _insidious_, there was nowhere that it could not reach, seemingly.

"Sorry about the book, Mother," the Last Lightborn said, "if it was disturbing you." He tossed the thick, leather-bound volume carelessly into the corner, where there lay some others in a haphazard pile. He really should take better care of his books, such were rare… though becoming less rare, since no-one seemed to be making Readers anymore, or Tellers-of-Truth-and-Lies. These _ter'angreal_ were becoming as rare as books had once been.

He did have a pleasant voice, did he sing? Latra had studied music and applied those studies to her duties – she had even formed a small choir out of some of the Warmen, though she would have preferred to direct music that came from less stony faces, to know that those making the pleasing sounds were enjoying themselves. Warmen enjoyed some things, but these all involved killing the Shadow, art and music never having featured in their training and indoctrination. Some of their officers were a little more artistically inclined, Latra Sedai had also formed a small string quartet from two of them as well as one of the War-Sisters.

The Warmen sang what she told them to in the way that she told them to because she was _Shadar Nor_ and if she had told them to all take out their swords (which they were never without, even during rehearsals) and ordered them all to fall on the blades, they would have done so just as readily. Though she would not have given such a command, of course.

"It is quite alright, Tro, I could not sleep anyway – but must you keep addressing me in that fashion?"

"Mother?"

"Do you not imagine speaking to me constantly with extremely inferior to extremely superior inflection will not get a little wearing for you after a while?"

"I do not mind, Mother. It seems appropriate. You are high above me."

"Well it does not seem appropriate to me, young man! Do it again and I will put you over my knee! Ordinary inferior-to-superior will do." Did young Tro grin a bit before disappearing from sight again? She was not sure. _Extremely_ inferior inflection! The only people who ever used that anymore were invariably doing so in order to be sarcastic! Was he? Even the Warmen did not do that for her. Well, if it was not meant as a jest, then he had true humility… that was rare. No-doubt his wicked Father had instilled it in him. Well, Latra expected that he would remember. Like not adding the full 'Aes Sedai' honorific, just 'Sedai'… he only seemed to need to be told something once.

Latra snuffed the glowbulb but still sat upright in bed for a while. She really couldn't sleep.

"Tro?" Two glowing cobalt eyes appeared at the end of her bed.

Latra gasped.

"Mother?"

"Goodness! I had forgotten that your eyes did that!" The strange eyes disappeared for a moment as Tro blinked slowly, before reappearing. "What was your book about?"

"Languages, Mother."

"Are you interested in languages, Tro?"

"Yes, Mother."

Probably because his 'Father' was. She remembered at the Collam Cor, a lifetime ago… Chaime Kufer was three hundred or so then, she half a century younger, both in the prime of adulthood… they had shared rooms in the Great Dome, his half cluttered with books on such varied topics as ancient languages, mutable biology, lesser and greater Construction… her half cluttered with musical instruments of all kinds, half-scrawled notations for the opera she had never finished. She remembered the languages, though… back then, Chaime had known twelve languages. She wondered how many he knew now?

"What about music, Tro? Do you like music?"

The glowing eyes at the end of her bed blinked again. It was rather surreal, having a conversation with the young fellow in the dark like this.

"I am not sure, Mother. Perhaps."

"You have a pleasant voice. With training, you would sing very well, I think."

Her diminutive bodyguard made a small sound, as though biting back the beginning of a sentence.

"Whatever you were about to say, say it. I do not bite!"

"But _I_ do, Mother – I chew holes in the Shadow whenever I am given the opportunity to do so. I have had my training, I was going to say, and it had little to do with music, I am afraid… Mother."

And the strange glowing eyes disappeared below the end of her bed. Latra smiled. Some people were scared of the monster under their bed, or in their closet. She was scared of whoever was out there with a bomb or a blade or an _angreal_ – and was relying on the monster beneath the bed to keep her safe! Though she really shouldn't think of young Tro in that way, even in jest. She had decided from the start to treat the Lightborn (as everyone else called him to his face) no different from any of the young Warmen who had been sent to shield her from the Shadow. To treat him as a man, in other words. It was the only way this would work. She knew that he had anger in him, even justified anger, and he could use that, provided that it was channeled in the right direction. Trained. Directed. _Conducted_.

The senior War-Sitters like Vora, and the others, back in Paaran Disen, they could never understand how she did it, how she juggled so much responsibility, kept all of her balls in the air at once… but it was quite simple, really. She was the Tamyrlin, and she had to do what she did to the best of her abilities, because there was no-one else left alive who could do it. And as for the vast Forces of Light that she controlled in a thousand arenas… well, it was simple. They were her orchestra. The war, a symphony.

* * *

><p>After Latra Sedai's breathing had slowed to that of sound sleep, Tro retrieved his book and lay back on his stomach on the hard elstone tiles at the foot of her bed. Perhaps the Mother would let him move his sleep pad to here? It would not get in the way, he could just push it under the bed during the day…<p>

He was trying to concentrate. The Root-speech was a difficult language to learn, with its twenty-three letter alphabet of odd symbols… not to mention its even odder numerals. Tro scratched an idle claw against his Light-mark – when Latra Sedai turned the glowbulb off he had removed his gloves again – and scowled. He hated being called 'Three.'

And then, Tro sniffed softly at the air… and smelt them. A slow grin spread across his face. _Finally!_ His first assassins! This was going to be fun… he hoped at least one of them would try to run away from him. Then he could chase something that wasn't just a boring _sorda_ or a Beastman. Maybe he would count to twenty this time, instead of just ten.

* * *

><p>When Latra came down to the kitchen the next morning, she discovered her young bodyguard sitting at the counter, eating breakfast cereal. Freia, one of her <em>Da'shain<em>, was pouring him some more milk, a fond smile on her beautiful face. Tro rose at her approach and bowed. He had shed his pyjamas for a Warman uniform and shattercloth gauntlets, a black band over his brow concealing the points of his ears. She motioned him back to his stool.

"Mint tea please, Freia," she said to the tall, golden-haired _Da'shain _maiden, who moved to the tea canisters with alacrity.

Latra took a seat on another stool, stifling a yawn. She had not slept well. She protected her sleep with extremely powerful wards against the Shadow, but they did not prevent the more commonly occurring sort of nightmare. Her dreams had been full of the faces of those she had sent to their deaths. They usually were. She noted that her bodyguard was looking pleased with himself. Freia brought her tea with a smile and Latra sipped at the soothing brew, feeling herself revive somewhat.

A tap at the door and a Warman sergeant slipped into the kitchen, bowing with one hand over his heart, another resting on the hilt of his power-forged blade.

"Lieutenant Cabryis to see you, _Shadar Nor_," he stated gruffly.

Latra repressed a sigh. Not even time to finish her tea before the responsibilities of her position intruded… such were the demands of rank.

"Show him in, sergeant."

Lieutenant Cabryis was a tall, angular man, the commander of her personal guard, and he took his duties extremely seriously. He was also tone deaf and could not carry a tune. Not a good enough reason to have him replaced, of course, but Latra would have preferred a more musical officer in attendance. Cabryis entered the kitchen, the Heron-marked hilt of his sword sticking up over one shoulder. He bowed low and stiffly refused an offer of tea from the _Da'shain_.

"Good morning, Latra Sedai," Cabryis said, "you will have heard of the events of the night, I am sure. I am here to discuss moving your sleeping quarters to a more secure area of the camp."

"Events of the night?" Latra glanced at Tro. He was sitting with his spoon poised in front of his mouth, milk dripping down into the bowl. He eyed her.

"Forgive me, Mother, I did not wish to trouble you with the news until you had had your tea," Tro said softly.

Cabryis gave Tro a sidelong glance, his lips thinning.

"What happened?" Latra enquired, holding out her cup for Freia to pour fresh tea into it.

"Grey Men," stated Cabryis, "seven of them, they-"

"Six-and-a-half," corrected Tro.

Cabryis regarded him flatly. Unfazed, Tro took up the story;

"They came through a Travelling Gate in the basement but it closed on the last one so I didn't have to worry about _him_… do not be concerned, Mother, I saw to it that none reached the top floor to trouble your sleep. The bodies have been removed." He said it all so matter-of-factly, as though defeating a half dozen of the Shadow's best assassins were of no great moment.

"What of the Gateward?" demanded Latra, "how could they get past?"

Cabryis and Tro exchanged a troubled glance.

"The Gateward was shut down for ten chimes last night," Cabryis reluctantly informed her, "it was done by someone on the inside. The sentry was killed."

"They could only shut it down for a brief space of time to let the Grey Men Travel in before setting off the alarms. I guess the last one didn't move fast enough." Tro sighed. "But we are looking for a traitor, Mother."

Latra sighed also. The enemy within was the one that concerned her most of all. And she probably _would_ have to move her sleeping quarters again. Cabryis had made no secret of the fact that he wanted her shut up within the Keystone, the massive fortress that loomed over their camp, rather than the small, comfortable residence she currently occupied.

"Very well. Double the guards on the Gateward, Lieutenant Cabryis. I would like you to work with Tro on discovering the identity of our traitor." The two exchanged glances that held little in the way of trust or amicability. Well, they would have to learn to work together, though she suspected that Cabryis resented the presence of her new bodyguard in his detail.

"What of moving your quarters, _Shadar Nor_?" Cabryis wanted to know.

Latra winced slightly. It was impossible to stop the rank and file Warmen from calling her 'Cutter of the Shadow' but usually the officers contented themselves with her Aes Sedai title. Usually. Cabryis was reminding her of how important she was to them. She did not have to _like_ the name, however.

"Since it seems that the Shadow knows where I sleep at night, I shall relocate to the Keystone." Cabryis almost seemed to smile with satisfaction, though he _never_ smiled. A trick of the light, perhaps. "For the time being. As for yourselves, you have work to do, gentlemen. You had best be about it."

* * *

><p>Tro had to hurry to keep up with the long steps of Lieutenant Cabryis. It irked him that he was so much shorter than the Warmen, for all that he was more than their match on the battlefield. Around them, the busy camp was coming to life; platoons of Warmen lining up for roll call, War-Sisters riding past on thoroughbred steeds, <em>Da'shain<em> medics walking to their stations in the infirmary domes. They had to pause as a line of armoured jo-cars rolled across their route, a convoy patrol setting out through the gates. Tro wished that he was going with them, out to look for Renegades to fight and kill, but no, he was a bodyguard now, his place was with Latra Sedai. He should be with her right now, in fact, the Shadow was always trying to kill her. What would they send next time? Shadowmen? Draghkar? Dreadlords, even? He had never fought a Dreadlord, and eagerly anticipated doing so. They could channel the One Power at him all they liked, it would avail them little.

But instead of protecting Latra Sedai, he had been given a mystery to solve. As the last jo-car passed, Cabryis set off again with his long strides, Tro trotting at his heels. Their destination loomed ahead, a tall tower set between a row of hab-domes used by the Aes Sedai. The Gateward.

The whole tower was a _ter'angreal_, he had been told. It was constructed of what looked like a lacy filament of shining steel strands, melded together, balanced on three feet. It soared above them. In the space at its base stood a circular metal ring, whereby the device could be controlled. Controlled by someone channeling.

"How was the sentry killed?" Tro enquired softly.

Cabryis eyed him, as though wondering whether to answer or not. Finally, he shrugged. "We don't know. There wasn't a mark on him."

Tro nodded. Killed with the One Power, in other words. Given that the Gateward could only be controlled by a channeler, it seemed that the traitor they sought almost certainly wore the Ring. This was more than troubling.

Tro crouched, sniffing the ground beneath the Gateward, checking for tell-tale footprints or any sign of who had been there, but there was nothing. Two Warmen stood nearby, shocklances precisely angled, guarding the Gateward. For what little good they would do…

"We should have one of the War-Sisters on guard, in case they try it again."

Cabryis shook his head. "You might as well announce that you suspect a Sister of being complicit in the death of the sentry. They would never agree to it." He sneered slightly. "If you're so worried about it, why don't _you_ stand guard, Lightborn?"

"My place is at Latra Sedai's side, guarding _her_."

Cabryis shrugged. "True, I suppose. How did you know about the Grey Men?"

"I scented them. Grey Men smell like something that's been dead awhile."

"And how were you able to see them? They can walk right past _my _guards."

"They _did_ walk right past your guards. Whatever it is about them that defeats your eyes doesn't work on me. I can see them. That's all."

A neighing and a stamping of hooves and a tall, white mare was reigned up beside them. Its rider was a slender girl with dark, tilted eyes, wearing an enveloping robe of fancloth, making her very difficult to see. Only her pale face beneath the hood was entirely visible, and it wore a haughty expression.

"Warman Lieutenant," she said coolly, her eyes moving to Tro. "Lightborn."

"Good morning Apprentice," said Cabryis, nodding if not exactly bowing.

Tro did not say anything. He was well aware that Kiam Lopiang disliked him, and he returned the feeling in equal measure. What did she want here?

"I heard that there was trouble last night." Kiam's eyes drilled into his. "Vora Sedai has sent me to enquire if any help is required in your investigation."

Tro suspected that this was an enlargement of the truth. Doubtless, Kiam was just snooping around for her own ends, and had got old Vora to provide her with permission to do so in absentia. He did not want Kiam's involvement… but still, she _did_ have those seven Talents that were always being spoken of with awe. Flight was one of them, granted, but as for the other six…

"Can you read residues, Kiam Apprentice?"

Tro regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Kiam regarded him coldly, then nodded curtly and slipped down from the saddle. Her mare continued to stamp and whicker, tossing its head, whilst she attempted to quiet it.

"She doesn't like the way you smell, Lightborn," Kiam said, scornfully.

Tro shrugged. Horses often didn't, it was true. Well, too bad! He stood aside as Kiam cast about the area where the sentry had been killed. Squinting, he could see the aura around her flare brighter as she channeled. After a while, she nodded.

"Someone used an extremely nasty web here last night," she murmured, "a web of _saidar_. It kills, instantaneously. I don't know who, though."

"It could have been anyone," muttered Cabryis.

Kiam gave him a level look. "Well it wasn't _me_," she stated pointedly, before mounting her horse, seeming to flow fluidly up into the saddle. Nostrils flaring, the mare turned in a circle, but Kiam brought it swiftly under control with deft touches of her heels and the reins. She smiled coolly down at Tro. "Perhaps if you took more _baths_, Lightborn, the horses would be less frightened of you?"

Tro glared – he bathed every day! – but before he could say anything, Kiam was cantering away through the busy camp. Off to make her report to Vora, or to meddle elsewhere. It wasn't _his_ fault horses were scared of him! It was Father's.

* * *

><p>Latra regarded her new quarters with distaste. That there were no windows was the first objection she had to them, though by no means the only one. But there could not be any windows here, deep beneath the ground as they were. She could feel the solid mass of the Keystone fortress weighing over her head, bearing down on her; numerous levels of heartstone-shielded military emplacements and tactical areas. She felt like a fox, driven underground by the huntsmen.<p>

The furnishings were familiar, at least. Around Latra, her _Da'shain _worked to move her belongings, her sung-wood tables and chairs, her works of art and recreation _ter'angreal_, turning the chambers into something resembling a home. Her Warmen lined the cold, _cuendillar_-tiledwalls, extra vigilant in the absence of her bodyguard. He should be back soon… in fact, here he was now.

Tro descended on the lift-platform, standing beside Lieutenant Cabryis and three of the War Ajah Aes Sedai. He looked so diminutive alongside the towering Warman officer and the tall Sisters, and yet he had slain six Grey Men by himself the previous night. He smiled shyly on seeing her, and moved quickly to stand at her side. He let Cabryis make the report;

"The sentry on the Gateward was slain with a web of _saidar_, Latra Sedai."

The War-Sisters frowned. In fact, Vora Sedai scowled darkly, a not unusual expression for her. Nabraam Sedai and Injira Sedai practically mirrored it, however. Clearly, they did not like to think of the traitor as being one of their own.

Cabryis shrugged his bony shoulders. "It was a well co-ordinated plan. Whoever turned off the Gateward did so with precision, to allow the Grey Men time to Travel to the basement below your old quarters. The Lightborn and I canvassed the area but no-one saw anything out of the ordinary around the Gateward last night."

"It was not that precise," demurred Tro, "one of the Grey Men was too slow, remember?"

Cabryis frowned. "It was precise _enough_."

Vora Sedai snorted. "Never mind that! We have a traitor amongst us, planted by the Renegades… I mean to discover who she is, and wring her filthy neck!"

Latra repressed a sigh. Vora could be so… atavistic, sometimes. With her red face and powerful shoulders, she rather resembled a farmwife from some low comedy than an Aes Sedai.

Nabraam Sedai looked more the part, tall and graceful, her hair so pale as to be almost silver. She spoke, softly; "that is assuming that she is still in the camp. Have we checked to see if anyone is missing?"

Injira Sedai, pale-skinned and slender, shook her head. "I checked. Everyone is accounted for, with the exception of the Sisters who went on dawn patrol with their Warmen."

Vora fingered the fluted ivory _sa'angreal_ tucked through her belt. "We will find her," she said grimly, "in the meantime, Mother, it would be best for you to stay here, where you are safe." She eyed Tro dismissively. "Provided that your Lightborn bodyguard is up to the task."

Tro shifted uncomfortably. Latra had noticed that Vora made him nervous. An effect she had on most people, but it was more pronounced with Tro.

"I will not hide in a hole in the ground," Latra stated firmly, "the Creator knows, the Shadow has tried to kill me before. They will try again, that is the way of things. What cannot be overcome must be endured. Now, if you will excuse me Sisters, I have troop reports to look at and a thousand other things to do."

They took their leave, with poor grace on Vora's part, and Latra was left alone with her bodyguard, her _Da'shain_, and the ever-present Warmen. As alone as she would ever be, at least. Putting fears for the future from her mind, she turned her attention to the war. There was work to do.

* * *

><p>Tro stifled a yawn, did his best to control his boredom. They had been up here for several bells. The main tactical chamber in the Keystone was a large, circular room near the top of the fortress. At its centre was the holo-map, projecting an image of the entire Northborder, with friendly and enemy strongholds marked out as differently coloured glowing spheres, small notations floating beside them.<p>

Latra Sedai was conferring with the General, various Warmen officers clustering around them. Tro kept a close eye on them all, just in case. They towered over the small, snub-nosed woman in the flowing _streith _gown, but there was no doubt who was in command. She was _Shadar Nor_, they lived to serve her. As did he.

Strange to think that when he had first accepted this assignment, he had not imagined that he would end up _liking_ the Aes Sedai he had been set to protect. But he did. You could not help but like Latra Sedai, respond to her good nature. There were some who said the failure of the Strike on Shayol Ghul was her fault, but Tro was not one of them. She had acted through wisdom, not caution, when she formed the Fateful Concord. The Dragon had led the Companions against the Dark One's prison without female Aes Sedai in their ranks, _saidin_ had become Tainted, the War of Power had ended… and the wars with the Renegades had begun. The rest was history.

Tro chided himself for letting his mind drift and moved a little closer to Latra Sedai. Some of the Warmen officers frowned at him, but he ignored them studiously. He knew that his presence here in the heart of the Keystone was not desirable to them, he did not have clearance beyond that afforded to him as _Shadar Nor's _bodyguard. They did not know what to make of him… he was neither Warman nor Aes Sedai, he did not fit. Perhaps they objected to him overhearing their battle plans? Tro cast his eyes over the holo-map. As far as he could tell, they were losing this particular war, outnumbered, falling back on all fronts. It did not look good.

"Thank-you, General. Please implement the revised troop orders." Latra Sedai inclined her head to the General and he bowed back. He was a grizzled, white-haired specimen with a bad flash-burn scar down the left side of his face, the glowing red orb of a _seia'dor _replacing his eye on that side.

"It will be done as you say, Tamyrlin," the General said gruffly. His officers bowed also and Latra Sedai glided away, Tro falling into step beside her. Her _Da'shain _attendants waited by the elevator platform. Tro risked a quick sideways glance at the Mother. She looked troubled. It was a heavy weight crushing her, the responsibility of running the war, and he wished that he could alleviate it somehow. But he could not. All he could do was his own small part in the grand scheme of things… keeping her alive. The next assassins might be preparing, even now. Well, they would not get past him. Not unless he was dead, at least.

* * *

><p>Latra set her white stone down on the board, wondering how to make the defeat not <em>too<em> embarrassing for her opponent. Young Tro really was not a very good player of _no'ri_. He was surrounded on all sides, trying to fight a losing position, and did not seem to know when to give up. Which boded well, in a way… she would not want a bodyguard who knew the meaning of the word 'quit.' Latra stifled a smile behind a long-fingered hand. The way Tro was staring intently at the board, a look of ill-disguised discontent on his thin face, biting the tip of his tongue with sharp, white teeth… it was quite touching, really. Clearly, he did not relish losing.

Tentatively, her young bodyguard placed one of his black stones, fumbling it a little. She should have him remove those thick gloves, but knew he was self-conscious about what he kept under them. Freia approached with the wine decanter but Latra placed a hand over her spun-crystal goblet, she allowed herself no more than one glass in the evenings. The _Da'shain _maiden lingered, looking down at the board, then shook her head and moved away with silent grace. It seemed she knew a losing position when she saw one also.

Latra placed another stone. Tro had fallen into her trap, she now possessed more than four fifths of the board. He sighed, noticed that she was watching him, and grinned. "You have me, Mother!" he exclaimed, "is it worth me setting another stone?"

"Perhaps not."

"When you suggested a match, I warned you that I was not very good."

"Do not be so hard on yourself, Tro. You play well enough, I have just been allotted a few more years than you to properly master the game." Latra scowled with mock severity. "Just do not ask me _how many_ more years. A woman is entitled to her secrets."

Tro spread his hands wide in surrender. "Would not dream of it, Mother. The game is yours, I admit defeat. And congratulate you on your victory." He raised his beaker of milk and Latra clinked her goblet against it, sipping the last of her wine.

Latra leant back in her sung-wood chair, surveying the room. It had a more lived-in air to it now that her furnishings had been arranged to her liking, but it still felt like a windowless prison-cell when compared with her former quarters. In the corner stood a triangular metallic construct, a small, portable Gateward. Injira Sedai sat cross-legged beside it, spinning the webs that kept the device active. After the attempt on her life the previous night, nothing was being left to chance. The Warman sergeant appeared in the archway that led out to the lift-platform. He bowed.

"Lieutenant Cabryis to see you, _Shadar Nor_."

"Send him in." Latra sighed. What now?

Cabryis came in, his helmet held under one arm. He approached and bowed. His dark eyes moved over the _no'ri_ board and Tro shifted in his seat, his face reddening a little. Clearly, he did not like to have the extent of his defeat witnessed by others. Particularly Cabryis. The tall officer spoke;

"With your permission, I require the Lightborn's services, Latra Sedai."

"Is this to do with your investigation?"

"It is, Latra Sedai. There has been a… development."

"Then by all means, go and investigate."

Tro rose from his chair, but hesitated. "You are sure, Mother? My place is at your side…"

"I am perfectly safe in the heart of the Keystone. Or if I am not then I am not safe anywhere. Go with Cabryis, I have the Warmen to protect me."

Tro bowed, and with a last regretful glance at his losing position on the board, followed Cabryis from the room. Latra watched him go. He was an excellent bodyguard, certainly, but he really was a truly terrible player of _no'ri_…

* * *

><p>As before, Cabryis led the way with long strides, through the main gates of the Keystone and out into the night. The camp was largely deserted this late, lit only by glowbulbs strung at intervals between the rows of domes and blockhouses.<p>

"What is it, Lieutenant?" Tro enquired, hurrying to stay alongside the tall Warman officer, "you mentioned a development?"

"More dead sentries at the Gateward," said Cabryis, harshly. "That Apprentice we saw this morning is at the scene, checking for residues. I thought we might be able to use your nose, also."

Tro shrugged. It was possible, he supposed, though he had not been able to detect anything earlier. But if Cabryis wanted to use him as a sniffer-dog – much as he disliked the connotation – then so be it.

The area beneath the Gateward was dark, shrouded in shadows, but Tro's sharp night-vision could make out two corpses in Warman uniform lying there. There was no sign of Kiam, for that matter. And he could smell blood.

"They weren't killed with the One Pow-" he began to say and then a curved, Heron-marked blade was sweeping for his neck. It cut deep before he could get a hand up in time to stop it, gripping the sword in his thick gauntlet and ducking back. Cabryis cursed angrily and wrenched the blade from his grip, slicing though the shattercloth glove and cutting his hand. The wound in his neck was worse, it was bleeding heavily.

Tro leapt back as the sword swept at him again. "Are you mad?" he snarled. Cabryis was good, he had earned that Heron and moved like a Blademaster… and Tro was unarmed. And yet, he was _always _armed. He stripped off his gauntlets, dropping them to the ground, and extended his claws from their sheaths.

Cabryis came for him, but this time Tro deflected the blade with sweeps of his sharp claws, metal ringing on nail, sparks flying.

"Die, freak!" Cabryis hissed. "Accursed abomination!"

Tro grinned. "You will have to do better than that!" He somersaulted past a downward sweep of the blade, ducked under a cut that attempted to take his head off, and slashed with the claws on his left hand. Cabryis screamed, stumbling back, clutching the right side of his face. When he took his hand away, a mask of blood was all that remained, the eye missing… but then, his hand returned to the hilt and he took up a swordsman's stance again. Tro almost admired him.

"How long have you been a Friend of the Dark, Cabryis?"

Cabryis did not answer, but came in again, determined. Tro was bleeding badly himself, and knew he had to end this soon. So he did. He let the animal in him take over, and sword or not, Cabryis never had a chance. After it was done, Tro stood over the dismembered corpse of his opponent, breathing deep, a hand clasped against his neck to staunch the flow of blood, which was already diminishing. Why? Why had Cabryis attacked him?

"Lightborn?"

Tro looked up. It was Kiam, floating down through the night air, her fancloth robes swirling about her. She alighted beside him, examining Cabryis' corpse with disinterest. "I assume there is some sort of an explanation for all this?"

"If there is, then I don't know what it is… do you have a field dressing?"

"Yes, here." Tro took the gauzy rectangle Kiam had dug out of her belt pouch, stripped off the cover and pressed it to the deep wound in his neck, feeling it mould itself to the shape of the cut and adhere. He winced. He healed fast, but that did not mean that being wounded did not hurt. It did. The whole left sleeve of his _cadin'gai _was drenched with blood, he felt light-headed.

"Cabryis lured me away on false pretexts," Tro said, more to himself than to Kiam. "He tried to kill me, but it was more than that… I am not the true target, _Shadar Nor_ is…" his eyes widened and he grabbed Kiam's sleeve "…there is to be another attempt on the Mother's life! They could be trying to kill her even now!"

Kiam's eyes narrowed. She moved behind Tro, grabbing him beneath the arms.

"What are you doing, Kiam Apprentice?" Tro demanded, surprised.

"What do you _think_, Lightborn?" And then, he was airborne.

The flight up to the top of the Keystone was breathtaking, and more than a little bit scary. It was over soon enough, but not soon enough to suit Tro. Kiam deposited him on the landing ramp unceremoniously so that he had to tuck and roll, feeling the wound in his neck opening again, and then they were both running for the elevator. This took them down to the main tactical command deck, which was deserted. The lift platform leading down to Latra Sedai's quarters should have been guarded by Warmen, but was not. A bad sign.

The quarters below were empty, the _no'ri_ board still set out on the sung-wood table… no, a tall figure wearing the _cadin'sor _lay in a pool of blood beside the chair. It was Freia. She had been stabbed in the side. Tro turned her over gently but her eyes were glazed, a calm smile frozen on her lips. He snarled. He hated to see the _Da'shain _hurt, killed. Who would have done such a thing?

"Which way are _Shadar Nor's_ sleeping quarters, Lightborn?" Kiam wanted to know, frowning at Freia's corpse and fingering her soldier's angreal, a brooch in the shape of the White Tooth.

"Through that arch… stand back, Kiam Apprentice, I will go first." Tro pushed past Kiam, ignoring her scowl, hoping that he was in time. Where were the Warmen guards? Were they too late, was the Mother already dead?

The archway opened onto a short corridor. The door to Latra Sedai's sleeping chamber lay at the end… and outside of it, Injira Sedai lingered. In one hand she held a short, black rod. In the other, a bloodstained knife. The pale Aes Sedai saw him at the same time he saw her, and her dark eyes widened.

"You have the Great Lord's own luck, Lightborn freak!" she spat, then pointed with the knife. "Die!"

Squinting, Tro saw the aura around her flare brightly, but the web that should have killed him had no more effect than any other web would have, it simply flowed off him like water off a duck's back. He smiled.

Injira cursed. "So you are immune to channeling! But are you immune to _this?_" She held up the black rod.

"Lightborn, that casts balefire!" Kiam whispered.

Injira heard. "True, as the guards discovered to their cost. I burnt them from the Pattern, just as I will burn you both, and then _Shadar Nor_. The Cutter of the Shadow shall be cut from the Age Lace herself!"

"No she won't," Tro muttered. He could move extremely fast, but had never moved as fast as he did then. He saw a bright nimbus of light beginning to glow around the rod and time seemed to stand still as he ran down the corridor, his boots pumping on the _cuendillar _tiles, Injira seeming to leap towards him as he covered the intervening distance in a series of long bounds… and then he was on top of her, her eyes wide and frightened, her neck between his hands, her spine snapping like a twig. He dropped her limp corpse to the floor and stood over it, breathing heavily. Kiam joined him. Her dark, tilted eyes held a certain… wariness.

"That was… impressive, Lightborn. I've never seen you kill anyone before."

"I hope that you won't have to again, Kiam Apprentice."

The door to Latra Sedai's sleeping quarters opened and she came out, wearing a nightgown, her hair dishevelled. "What is all this noise?" Her dark eyes took in the scene. "Injira? I would never have suspected _her_…"

"She spoke of the 'Great Lord.' She was a Friend of the Dark, Mother. So was Cabryis. Please stay in your room until I can summon Warmen, there may be more assassins." Tro didn't want Latra Sedai to know about her dead _Da'shain_, not yet. She would grieve so.

Latra Sedai stooped to pick up the black rod. "This is a device of the Shadow, certainly. A vile thing." She tucked it through the belt of her nightgown, then scrubbed her hands vigorously together. She raised an eyebrow at Kiam.

"What are you doing here, Apprentice?"

Kiam curtsied, her face reddening a little. "I… followed the Lightborn." She turned, glided down the corridor. "I will fetch the Warmen, Mother."

Latra Sedai watched Kiam go. "Vora gives that girl altogether too much latitude, if you ask me." She smiled at Tro. "It seems I have you to thank for my continued survival once more, young Tro."

"Thanks are not necessary, Mother. Protecting you is what I do. It is what I _am_, now."

"And you are wounded!" Latra touched the bandage over Tro's neck and he flinched, wincing. "I would that I could Restore you."

"It will be healed in a day, Mother." Tro realised that he was practically covered in blood, mostly his own but some that of Cabryis, and worse, he was un-gloved. His gauntlets were still lying on the ground back by the Gateward, and his claws were bloody. He put his hands behind his back, and bowed his head.

"Honour to serve, Aes Sedai."

"No. Honour to _be _served, Last Lightborn."


	4. Briar Patch II

_**Gleeman Bob writes:** happy New Year! this story takes place before the War of Power got going and explains where that blunt dagger ter'angreal came from, amongst other things. it features the first Lightborn, not the last one. hope you like it and..._

_...Walk in the Light! _

* * *

><p><strong>Briar Patch II<strong>

Father was downstairs, busy with his Doorway thing and Wan was bored, so he had bullied old Ledrin into playing a game of Briar-Patch with him, even though it was not yet nearly bed-time. They sat on the floor with the thick square of grey silk spread out between them, neatly divided into hexagons, embroidered in silver thread with the tangled briars that comprised the numerous winding paths and dead-ends that made the game so difficult to win. In the centre was the divided black and white hexagon from where the Hare-stone started, while at each of the four corners stood the different coloured hexes from whence the animals who intended to devour poor Hare would begin their slow, inexorable advance. If Hare managed to reach the green edge of the briar-patch and get back to the centre again, then he would win, and _not_ get eaten. Not that _that_ happened very often…

Wan made the signs with his hands whilst saying the ritual words in his deep voice, which had to be chanted in the vulgar Low-tongue, for some reason. It was traditional. Briar-Patch was a very old game, and the Low had been around for a very long time. Father had taught it to him in his idle moments. It had not taken very long.

"_Bear, Wolf, Wildcat, Fox… it is you the swift Hare mocks!_"

Ledrin sighed, but said the rest in the same crude language, as he was meant to.

"_Run fast, little Hare… we are hungry, we don't care!_"

Though Ledrin did not make the signs with _his_ hands as he was supposed to. He could be _such_ a stick-in-the-mud. Wan enthusiastically threw both of his count-cubes, one white, the other black, added the total and moved his Hare-stone several jumps toward the outside of the briar-patch. Ledrin threw both of his, and nodded gravely. His cubes were more complex; one was yellow and blue, the other, green and red. His throw had given him a blue number, and a green. Ledrin moved both his blue Cat-stone and his green Wolf-stone accordingly, slowly advancing towards the Hare-stone.

"Be careful, Little Master, there are hungry wildcats and wolves on the way."

"I can see _that_, Ledrin! Oh no, only a two and a one! _Damn!_"

"Do not say bad words in the Low please, Little Master."

"Yes Ledrin. Sorry Ledrin."

Wan moved Hare three jumps further away from Wolf and Cat. Though that took him towards Bear, who had not moved yet. Ledrin's turn. A blue number again, but this time the other cube had landed with one of its three red sides facing up. Therefore, Cat could move, but only _two_ hexes, so Hare was safe for now, while Wolf had to stay where he was – because it was Fox's turn to enter the game!

Some time later, though it probably seemed longer to Ledrin that it did to young Wan, who had not yet become tired of Briar-Patch, as most children eventually did, the child threw up his big hands in defeat.

"Oh no – Fox has caught Hare! Now he will eat him!"

"That he will, Little Master. That he most certainly will."

Wan carefully packed the cubes and stones back into the box, pushing the rolled-up board in after it, and they stood up, the Lightborn child looming over Ledrin. Wan glanced down through the floor between his large feet, staring towards the sublevel of the Collam Aman where he could still sense Father… so he hadn't gone into the stone door thing yet, then. Wan was fairly sure he would not be able to sense Father once he had gone in _there_. Also, he wondered why he was taking _that_ particular Apprentice with him. Wan did not think that they would be seeing young Savane walking around the corridors ever again… and good riddance to bad rubbish!

* * *

><p>Chaime Kufer, who had once been Chaime Kufer Mors, stood in his deepest and most secure laboratory, staring at the twisted, redstone Doorway carved with triangles that waited before him. Behind, the Wards were lowered and the round, heartstone portal rolled back into the wall. Savane came in, his hands neatly folded in the sleeves of his grey robes, his dark eyes moving to the Master. Chaime did not bother to turn around. His newest Apprentice had obeyed his summons without hesitation. More fool him.<p>

Chaime had chosen Savane to accompany him for three reasons. Firstly, and most importantly, because he was weak in the Power. He could be overcome. Just. Since his sentencing, Chaime could barely match even his most junior Apprentice. The Drogue that had been placed on him by the Hall saw to that.

The second reason? Simple. Literally. Savane was _stupid_.

And thirdly, the youth was also (though the two things often seemed synonymous to Chaime) a Friend of the Dark. He was no assassin – Chaime had made quite certain of _that_, before summoning him – which meant that he was a spy. Yet another infiltrator. Chaime had long experience of the Shadow… too long… and there were various means at his disposal by which he could have verified that Savane had sold his soul to the Dark One. But he had not troubled to confirm it. He had not _needed _to. Two nights ago, after Chaime had finished reading him his story, little Wan had sleepily mentioned that Savane had recently been to Shayol Ghul, he could _smell_ it on him, and that was good enough for Chaime. The boy was never wrong about these things.

Wan would make a formidable soldier, Chaime thought, to set against the hideous beast-men that Ishar was spawning… but he wished that the lad would stop _growing _so fast! The boy had to be fitted for new clothes every _month! _

The portal-stone rolled back into place and the Wards raised again. The laboratory was secured once more. Now, they were alone. Savane bowed low.

"As you have summoned me, Master, so I am come," he stated, smoothly.

"Calibrate the Guide _ter'angreal_," Chaime told him.

Savane turned to do as he was bid. And Chaime took the _sa'angreal_ out of the capacious sleeve of his dark robe, seized the Source, and struck. The _sa'angreal_ was very old and powerful, a life-sized gold hand curled into a fist, the first finger extended. As he usually did when he used it, Chaime held it by the stump of the wrist and pointed the golden finger at his target. Savane tried to seize _saidin_ also, but by then it was too late. Far too late.

After it was over, Savane stood slumped, like a puppet with its strings cut, swaying slightly. Chaime approached him. "Whom do you obey?" he asked.

"You…" replied Savane, eventually, "…Great Lord… of the Dark."

Chaime smiled. Savane had sworn his oaths to the Great Lord (as had he, once) but now firmly believed, with what was left of his mind, that _Chaime_ was the Dark One. A nice touch. Chaime spoke again.

"You will obey me in all things. You will not speak again for so long as you live." After a few chimes had passed, Savane replied to this with a non-verbal nod, so presumably had understood.

_I do not want the fellow making his _own_ deal with the Foxes… though he seems rather incapable of it in any case…_

Chaime smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "In a moment, you and I are to take a field-trip to somewhere that you will no doubt find very interesting. But first, allow me to point something out to you, Savane – we are very different people, you and I. For example, you are a fool, whereas I am not. Do you see? But there _is_ one thing that we share, that we have in common with each other – at some point in our misspent lives, we have _both_ been to Shayol Ghul and we have _both_ sworn Oaths of obedience to the Great Lord of the Dark." Chaime leant closer, and lowered his voice confidingly. "The difference being, that when I swore _my_ Oaths, I was _lying_."

Savane had begun to drool a little. Chaime sighed, and wiped the youth's mouth with his sleeve. He was not very good at Compulsion, he had done a lot of damage in there. It was a foul thing to do to someone, even if they were a Friend. But there were fouler. He glanced at the Doorway. No time like the present…

"Savane, I am going to walk into this _ter'angreal_ Doorway now. You will wait for five chimes, then follow. Nod your head if you understand."

After a moment, Savane nodded slowly, so presumably, he understood. Chaime turned, and approached the Doorway. He paused just in front of it and took a deep breath. Whatever happened in there, he was certain that it would be far from pleasant. But he needed to do this, for a number of reasons. Well, _three_ reasons, to be precise.

Chaime took that last step. An all-encompassing noise, a blinding white light, a giddy sensation of movement. He opened his eyes, not realising that he had shut them. The place he stood in was just as young Gwili had described it. Even down to the smell, the stench, a thick, animal odour that hung heavy in the dusty air.

Chaime looked about himself, at the great, star-shaped chamber. He was ostensibly alone, but felt eyes on him all the same. Where was Savane?

At which, Savane appeared, stepping through the redstone door-frame behind him. He stood, swaying slightly, no sign of curiosity as to his surroundings marring the blankness of his features.

"Ah, Savane. _There _you are." Chaime wished he had not spoken, he did not like the way his voice echoed in the surroundings. Savane, of course, did not reply.

"A long time."

Chaime did not jump at the sound of the rough, growling voice, simply turned and examined the creature that stood before him, the Fox that had appeared from nowhere. Yes, it was just as Gwili had described. Too tall, and oddly proportioned. White complexion, reddish hair… and those straps it wore across its chest… _definitely _made from human skin. Was that meant to scare him? He had seen feeding-time in the breeding pits of the Trollocs, had participated in the darkest experiments of Ishar Morrad Chuain. It would take more than mere man-leather to disconcert him.

The creature, the Eelfinn, regarded him with its pale eyes and spoke again, in the same ancient dialect of the High Chant;

"Strange… to wait so long, and then for two to come at once."

Chaime scowled – _what are we, public jo-buses?_ Though it _had_ been a long time. No-one had stepped into this accursed thing since Gwili had…

"Take me to your leaders, Eelfinn."

"Presently. Do you abide by the treaties and agreements? Have you brought-"

"I have brought no musical instruments, implements for making fire nor cold iron neither. _Especially_ not the instruments." Chaime smiled. "I am not careless. I am not Gwilimin Sedai."

The Fox had been frowning at the interruption, now it smiled nastily back at him, baring its pointed teeth. It clearly remembered poor Gwili… _that_ must have been an enjoyable day for these vile creatures! If they even _had_ days, here, in the Realms. He was not sure.

Chaime knew _Aes Sedai_ who had studied these creatures and had literally driven themselves insane attempting comprehension of the workings of their bizarre world… like poor, mad old Ghenjei Sedai, after he built his tower… he had ended up throwing himself from the top of it, and Flight was _not_ one of his many Talents! Chaime did not care. The Aelfinn and the Eelfinn could defy the natural order as much as they wanted, so long as they stayed on _their _side of the Doorways. But they had things that he needed, and this was necessary. Once again, he wondered if it would be possible to bring the material back with him? There was only one way to find out. Though if it did prove impossible… well, that might be for the best. He had to try, though. The future depended on it, Deindre Sedai had said so.

Chaime had followed the Fox several steps toward the five-sided arch that led from the chamber before he realised that Savane was still standing beside the Doorway. He turned.

"Follow." Savane shuffled forward, slowly increasing speed. The Fox watched him approach, then eyed Chaime with perhaps a hint of disapproval. It could probably not tell exactly what had been done to the Apprentice, but it knew that _something_ had. He supposed that the Eelfinn preferred their meat unadulterated. The Fox eyed him for a moment, as though curious about something. Chaime could guess what. These creatures! It was almost impossible to decipher what they were thinking… but _almost_ _impossible_ was not the same thing as _impossible_. He had proved that, many times.

Chaime smiled. "I see a question in your eyes," he said.

The Eelfinn blinked its large, pale eyes slowly.

"In answer to it – yes, I _am_ every bit as evil as _you_ are. Though yours, I will admit, is a _different_ manner of evil than mine, and motivated differently, also. Now, lead on."

The Fox shrugged its wide shoulders and did so, Chaime following, Savane trailing after with stumbling steps. Chaime skill at Compulsion was meagre, he had done a fair bit of damage to the fellow's nervous system. Oh well. One should not pledge one's Oaths to the Great Lord if one was not prepared to take risks. Savane had gambled with his own soul… and he had lost. Everyone lost to the Dark One, eventually… except for him, hopefully. There was a first time for everything, was there not?

Chaime found the long corridor they traversed interesting, and the frequent reappearance of the chamber he had arrived in did not trouble him in the least. He was well aware that things would not make sense here, and they did not. It was almost reassuring, in a way. Eventually, they reached what he understood to be the Chamber of Bonds, and his guide departed as suddenly as it had appeared. Chaime gazed up at the eight pedestals that surrounded him, then glanced at Savane. The youth really did not look well.

As abruptly as the guide had appeared, each pedestal was suddenly occupied, by four male and four female Eelfinn. They gazed down at him, their pale eyes unreadable. One of the females spoke, roughly;

"By the ancient treaty, here is agreement made. What is your need? Speak."

Chaime spoke. He had put a lot of meticulous effort into selecting what he wanted. And how to ask for it, that was important too. These creatures were so… litigious! Everything had to be spelled out just right, or they broke the deal. And then, they broke _you_.

"I want a _ter'angreal_ that will hide me from the Shadow, that will blind the eyes of the Dark One to me for so long as I wear it." He had heard of such things, but no-one had made one for thousands of years, it was an art now considered lost. No doubt the Dark One had taken a hand in seeing to it that it was lost.

There was silence for a moment, then one of the male Eelfinn spoke, its growling voice echoing;

"Done."

"I want a weapon that will wound the _Gholam_, and in wounding, kill the _Gholam_." And Chaime would have given almost anything to have a _Gholam_ test-subject to try it out on… but he doubted even the Foxes could provide that!

"Done."

Chaime smiled confidently. Though inside, he was quaking. Which was odd. He had not been afraid for a long time, not since he fled from under the Shadow. After his years as Ishar's assistant, after the things that he had seen and been forced to participate in, he had thought that he had no fear left. But there it was – _fear!_ He almost relished the unaccustomed sensation. Which meant that they could probably sense it. They were almost certainly accustomed to it in those who visited them.

This would be the moment when he found out if the Agreement protected him or not. But in a way, it seemed only fair to make this particular demand of the Eelfinn – after all, did _they_ not leach emotions and experiences from others? Did _they_ not drain _saidin_ and _saidar_, when they could get it? Let _them_ have something taken from them in turn, for a change!

The Foxes seemed to shift impatiently. The male Eelfinn leant forward a little, fixing its flat gaze on Chaime.

"And for your third?"

Chaime pointed at the Fox, and smiled coldly.

"I want some of your _blood_, Eelfinn!"

The Foxes stirred. If Chaime had not known better, he might have thought them disturbed by his demand. The one he had addressed spoke, thoughtfully;

"A strange request, that last… unexpected."

The Foxes were frowning, clearly they did not much care for the unexpected.

"And what do you offer us in return?" asked a female Eelfinn.

"What do you _think?_" Chaime pointed again, this time at Savane. "_Him._"

The Foxes turned their gazes on Savane, and he made a horrified moaning sound in the back of his throat. There was still some of him left in there, presumably.

"Acceptable. Done and done."

The other Foxes descended from their pedestals with lithe grace and approached Savane, crouching, undulating… drooling. Chaime tried not to look, instead fumbling the keeping-flask from out of his robes. Now that the Agreement had been made, he just wanted to take what he had come for and get out of this place. He had seen some horrible things… the foulness of the breeding-pits where Ishar Morrad Chuain was building his armies. Human-beings tormented and murdered as a form of entertainment for large audiences of Friends. Vile games where people were used as playing-pieces, sacrificed and destroyed at the whims of the players. And worse. Much worse. Lews Therin did not know what it was _like_, under the Shadow – none of them did. But Chaime knew. Just as he knew that if he looked over his shoulder, he might see something every bit as horrifying. Chaime held out the keeping-flask and the last Fox leapt nimbly down from its perch, slashed open its wrist with a bronze-bladed dagger… and behind him, Savane began to scream.

* * *

><p>Wan was staring into the big tubule in the centre of Father's Special Lab. He knew that he was supposed to say 'laboratory' but it was easier to just say 'lab' and people still knew what you meant. Apart from Father, only he and Ledrin were allowed to come into the Special Lab, he had never seen anyone else in here. The tubule he was gazing at had a big green double-loop stencilled on it. Over in the corner stood the tubule that <em>he<em> had come out of. That one had a big yellow circle stencilled on it, and looked a bit dusty. A circle meant 'one' and the double-loop meant 'two.' Wan had learnt his numbers quickly, because you needed to be able to add-up to play a game of Briar-Patch. In fact, they were the _same_ old-fashioned symbols (no-one much used them anymore, Father said) as appeared on the count-cubes you used in the game, which was funny.

Wan pulled at his flatweave vest, which was already stretching tightly against his expanding frame, so he supposed that he would need to start wearing a bigger one soon. He tugged the material away from his chest and glanced down at the bright yellow circle, right over his heart. It was just like the one on the tubule he had come out of. Wan stopped looking at his Light-mark and leaned closer to the other tubule, staring in fascination at what floated in the glowing, golden fluid. That pale little baby in there, though _much_ smaller than a baby was when it was born… Father had told him that it was his younger brother, and that his name was 'Taw.'

Wan frowned. He wished Father would hurry up and finish doing whatever he was doing with Taw so that he could be born in the Light. It would be nice to have a little brother to play Briar-Patch with, having someone other than Father or dusty old Ledrin around. Father had said that it didn't matter about him not having any eyes (poor Taw!) he would be able to see things just fine. When he was born, _then_ it would be more like a proper family. It would be fun!

"Ah, here is the Master now."

Wan turned away from the tubule hurriedly, glad that Ledrin had warned him. Father did not like him going too close to some of the things in here. There had been… accidents, in the past. It was not _his_ fault he was so big and had such large feet! It was _Father's_ fault, if anyone's! Wan had not heard the wards being deactivated, such was his preoccupation with his younger brother, but no-one could miss the loud hum as the enormous locks on the heartstone door slid back and it slowly cycled open.

When Father came in he seemed to be in a good mood and was wearing a funny-looking knife hanging around his neck on a silk cord. And he had brought a present back from Eelfinland for Wan too! It was the best thing he had ever been given, better even than the shocklance – a great axe, with a long handle, its four curving, pointed blades made of some shiny metal that was like silver, only not. It had writing on it, but he could not read it. It gave Wan a funny feeling when he held it, and swung it around his head a few times. There were fluted holes set in the middle of each blade that channeled the air through strangely as he whirled it in circles. It made a scary sound. Those monsters that horrible old Grandfather was making would learn to fear that sound! When he grew up, and Father said he was ready. He could destroy ten times as many of the Shadow-wrought with _this!_ And the Tamyrlin would be _pleased _with him! Father had said so.

Father frowned at the eerie howling noise and noticed what he was doing. Uh-oh…

"_Wan!_ There is a lot of very delicate and _valuable _equipment in here, not to mention your _Brother!_ Be _careful_ with that, it is not a _toy!_"

"Yes Father. Sorry, Father."

It _was_ a toy though, it was the best toy he'd ever been given! _Definitely_ better than the shocklance. Those Foxes certainly knew how to make good toys! Perhaps he would even let Taw play with his axe, after he was born, though he couldn't keep it. It was Wan's axe, not his.

"I will set aside an area of the test range for you to use it in…" Father turned away and said something in his quiet-voice that sounded like; "I could have at least _asked_ for a _Gholam_, I suppose" and then he opened the Stasis Hold and carefully put a keeping-flask inside. Wan knew they were called that, Ledrin had told him so. The flask seemed to be full of some pale, thin liquid. Wan took advantage of Father's back being turned to give the axe another experimental swing, but slowly, so it wouldn't make the noise. It felt good in his hands. It felt right. When Father turned back, Wan swiftly lowered the… the _Howling Axe_, yes, that was a good name. He held it behind his back and tried not to look too guilty. Father came over and smiled up at him. He really _was_ in a good mood, he did not smile very often!

"Are you hungry, my Son?"

"I am _always_ hungry, Father!"

"Let us have dinner together, then."

* * *

><p>It was nice that Father could have dinner with Wan, as he did not have time to very often. The Tamyrlin certainly kept him busy! Father was having soup. He seemed to like soup. He kept fiddling with that blunt-looking knife hanging around his neck, and smiling to himself. Wan scowled thoughtfully as he ate his salad, steadily crunching green things between his large teeth. Savane had not come back through the Doorway with Father. He had not expected him to. He had felt it when Father returned to their world from wherever it was the Foxes and Snakes lived. He could always feel Father, because Father had been to Shayol Ghul, just like Savane. But Father was no Friend of the Dark – Father hated them even more than Wan did!<p>

Besides, when Wan asked him about it, when he first began to notice it, Father had told him that he had had his fingers crossed behind his back when he swore to the Great Lord. And Wan had to patiently remind him that the proper name was 'the Dark One.' He had to do that sometimes, Father did not always remember, occasionally he even spoke about 'the Chosen' instead of 'the Forsaken.' But at least he had Wan there to remind him. Also, Father had done lots of tests on him to try and find out why Wan could sense who had been touched by the Dark One, but had had to give up in the end. He had been angry, not with Wan, he was never angry with Wan, even when he accidentally broke something, but just angry with not knowing. Father did not like to not know things.

While Ledrin wasn't looking, Wan had accessed the feed from the hall outside the lab where the Doorway was being kept. He was not supposed to do this, only a grown-up was supposed to look at the feed, but he did it anyway. After a moment, Father came out, holding something that looked like a stick (the feed was not very detailed) and _no_ sign of Savane. Maybe the Foxes had eaten him? Just like the Fox-stone ate his Hare-stone earlier. Served him right if they did, for being a Friend of the Dark! He had been to Shayol Ghul and everything, they had probably got him to kill someone in his own family before they would accept his Oath. That was what they usually did, Father had told him, while he was reading him his story one night.

Wan vaguely wished Father had let _him_ destroy Savane. He was only a little boy still, but he was _sure _he could have – what could the dirty Dark-lover do except channel the One Power at him? _That_ would not work, and then it would be _his_ turn and _then_ Savane would be in trouble! Big trouble!

Wan wanted to destroy _something_, he had been made to do so, after all. And Friends of the Dark were bad people who _needed_ to be destroyed, almost as much as the monsters horrible old Grandfather was busy making did. Wan bit off half of a cucumber, chewing slowly, then nodded decisively. When he was a _big_ boy – and Father had told him he would be much bigger than an ogier, maybe even big as a Nym when he finally stopped growing – when he was big, then he was going to go north to the War that was expected to start soon. Any day now. But they were always saying that… Sometimes, he felt like he had spent his whole life waiting for the War to finally start. In fact… come to think of it, he _had_.

But when it was finally time, Wan would destroy as many of the monsters as he could... maybe he could even destroy them all? Not on his own, not even with the Howling Axe, but Father had said that he would make _more_ of him… though Wan was not sure how that would work. Would they look like him and have his name? He did not know if he _liked_ that idea. Though it would be nice not to be the _only _one and have people staring at him all the time. Wan scowled. He was tired of being the sole Lightborn. He _wished_ Father would hurry up and finish his little Brother!


	5. The Tale of the Nightwatcher II

_**Gleeman Bob writes: **this is the second part of a short story so if you haven't read 'The Tale of the Nightwatcher' you should probably head back to chapter 2 and do so or it won't make much sense. don't worry, neither story is very long! hope you enjoy and..._

_Walk in the Light!_

* * *

><p>"<em>Well?" hissed the evil Snake Monster, "do you give up?"<em>

"_No!" said the Nightwatcher, "I am still thinking about it..."_

"_You have had long enough! What iss the ansswer?"_

"_Hmm... yellow... pancakes... lemons? Yes, that's it – the answer to your riddle is; 'lemons!' "_

"_Curssess!" cursed the Snake Monster, "I did not think you would get that one..."_

"_My turn!" declared the Nightwatcher, because it was. He considered his next question for a while, then grinned with his pointy teeth and raised a dark claw. _

_"Tell me this if you can, slimy snake monster; when last I travelled to M'Alvydes I met a mouse with seven brides, each these mice had thirteen lice, so counting mouses, spouses and louses, how many travelled to M'Alvydes?"_

"_Hmm," mused the evil Snake Monster, thinking about it, "eight multiplied by thirteen, pluss the eight and counting you alsso... one-hundred and thirteen! Eassy!"_

"_Wrong, snake – one! Only _I_ was travelling there, I did not say that the mice and the lice were!" And the Nightwatcher laughed, his blue, glowing eyes twinkling. _

"_Cursse you, Nightwatcher," hissed the Snake Monster, "you tricked me!"_

"_Did not! I merely bested you in a game of wits, so there."_

"_Huh. Well, I ssuposse that you _did_ win," muttered the Snake Monster grudgingly, seeing that he could not wriggle out of it, "sso assk of me a boon, Nightwatcher..."_

"_Very well, here is my boon, Snake Monster; I wish for you to crawl back to your lair deep beneath the ground where the sun never shines – and this time I want you to stay there! No more sneaking up at night to disturb the sleep of good and well-behaved Aiel children with your nasty hissing!"_

"_Sssss!" went the Snake Monster angrily, but he was a monster of his word, so with a last glare, he turned, slithered away... and was seen nevermore in the world of men. _

_**extract taken from – 'The Nightwatcher and the Snake Monster' [author unknown]**_

* * *

><p><strong>The Tale of the Nightwatcher II<strong>

Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai, did not trouble to wait for the armoured jumper to land. When its forward momentum faltered and it began to hover, she embraced the Source and stepped out into the open air above the ambush site. As she drifted down toward the armoured jo-cars pulled up before the crude barricade of fallen logs that blocked the road, she carefully scanned her surroundings for signs of life, movement, but saw nothing. Her boots settled to the ground and the jumper touched down behind her, the squad of armed and armoured Warmen leaping out and surrounding her.

Kiam wore a cham-silk dust-coat over her hooded, fancloth gown, dark calf boots and a slim black belt, the ivory _sa'angreal_ of Vora tucked into its sheath. She could pull out the spiralling wand in an instant and hold it levelled at an enemy, but beyond its usefulness as a focus for the Power she wielded, she did not need to. She could magnify her strength and use it while it stayed in the belt.

Kiam took in her surroundings, drawing a deep breath which she released with a hint of a shudder. She had seen many a grim sight during the wars with the Renegades, but this was amongst the worst… a massacre. The score of _Da'shain_ _Aiel_ had been slaughtered and partially devoured by the dead Trollocs, who lay thick on the ground about them. Kiam's eyes narrowed. She hated to see dead Civilians, but seeing dead _Aiel_ was even worse somehow – at least a Civilian had the option of fighting back, however little this might avail them against Shadow-wrought.

"Secure the perimeter, Sergeant," she told an older Warman, and he touched his sword-hilt, put the other hand over his chest and bowed, before shouting orders at his men, who spread out amongst the corpses, shock-lances levelled in case any of the enemy remained. Which Kiam rather doubted they did. The Lightborn was thorough.

Kiam watched her squad of Warmen as they moved like automatons. When their eyes passed over the dead _Da'shain_, their expressions did not change, as though they felt nothing. Which they probably did not, anymore, they were all veterans. Kiam sighed. She respected the Warmen, but she did not _like_ them. They were not really human anymore, she considered, they had become living machines, engaged solely in the art of death.

More War-Sisters and Warmen were dismounting from the other jumpers now, spreading out to check the jo-cars further down the road, where Kiam could see more bodies, mostly Warmen. They had been the first to fall to the Trollocs, though had given a good account of themselves by the looks of it. Then, the twisted creatures had moved on to easier meat.

"Lightborn?" Kiam called. He must be in the vicinity, the broad parallel slashes on the dead Trollocs were clearly his work. And the rear door of one of the armoured jo-cars swung open just enough to allow the Lightborn to ease his head and one shoulder out. As per usual, he was garbed in the mantle of a Warman Scout. For some reason, he did not seem to want to open the door any further.

Kiam could not help but notice that the Lightborn was not wearing his gloves. This was unusual, for while all of the War-Sisters and Warmen in the camps were perfectly well aware of the fearsome weapons he kept beneath them – if they had not seen for themselves then they would have heard the stories – Kiam had observed that the Lightborn was self-conscious about his hands and never went ungloved in public. Unless he had killing to do, of course.

The Lightborn nodded to her. "Hello Kiam Sedai, you got here eventually I see…" Kiam scowled but the Lightborn had already turned toward the Warman Sergeant. "Sergeant?" The Sergeant promptly bowed to the Lightborn. Kiam frowned. The Sergeant really should not do that… the Lightborn was a Shieldman, not an Officer. "Please see to it that these… remains are removed." The Lightborn was not a Warman Officer and had no right to command the Sergeant, and yet he did. The Sergeant knew that the Lightborn was not his ranking superior – but this made absolutely no difference. After all, as far as the Warman was concerned, the Lightborn was something _more_ than a mere Officer… the Sergeant bowed again, slightly _lower_ than he had to Kiam!

"Yes, Gholam-Killer, it will be done as you say," he replied respectfully, and barked further orders at the squad, who moved swiftly to do the Lightborn's bidding.

Kiam Sedai scowled, and crossed her arms.

_Giving orders to _my_ Warmen…_

The Lightborn glanced at her, and smiled. "Forgive the presumption, Kiam Sedai," he called, "but there are children in here and I don't want them to see…" His strange eyes moved to the dismembered corpses of the _Da'shain_, now being dragged out of sight behind a stand of chora-saplings by the Warmen, their stony faces registering nothing whilst engaged in so grisly a task. The Lightborn did not trouble to finish the sentence.

Kiam approached the jo-car curiously, looking up at him. "Children?"

"Yes, come and see," muttered the Lightborn, reaching out one of his powerful hands to help Kiam up into the jo-car, then drawing it back again, suddenly uncertain. He had never taken Kiam's hand unless gloved before… Kiam raised a delicate eyebrow, her rosebud lips forming a pout.

"Really, Lightborn, where are your manners – you extend a helping hand to a lady and then withdraw it? Your Father did not raise you properly, it would seem!"

Kiam always called the Lightborn that to his face, she had her own reasons for doing this, but she also always made a point of evincing absolutely no disquiet whatsoever regarding the physical peculiarities of which he was so seemingly ashamed. She seized the re-extended hand, gripping his thick fingers, careless of the fact that they bore sharp black claws on the ends, set a booted foot on the jo-car and let the Lightborn haul her up inside, holding the door open a little wider as he did so, pulling it carefully shut behind her.

Inside the jo-car, a dozen small _Aiel_-children sat on the floor, looking up at the two adults framed before the closing door. And Kiam suddenly felt like crying.

"You didn't happen to see a pair of gloves lying around out there did you?" the Lightborn was wondering, but Kiam ignored him. She approached the _Aiel_- children, knelt, and held out her arms. She was Aes Sedai, so they trusted and loved her… before long, Kiam was neck deep in sobbing _Aiel_-children, finally letting their grief manifest itself. Kiam hugged the small children close to her, smoothing their hair, wiping away their tears, while feeling more tears gathering in her own eyes also.

* * *

><p>N'aethan squatted down by the door, watching sadly. Kiam was giving the children comfort – all he had done was scare them with his claws and then told them a stupid story! Well, he supposed he <em>had<em> saved their lives, that was the main thing.

Kiam turned, as though she had read his thoughts (he had heard that some Aes Sedai could do that, and sincerely hoped Kiam was not one of them) and stared at him unreadably for a moment, the _Aiel_-children clustered around her. She looked nice like that, N'aethan considered. Oddly motherly… Kiam eyed him with somewhat glistening eyes for a moment.

"Thank-you for saving them, Lightborn," she said, "you did a good thing today." N'aethan just grinned and shrugged, his usual response to anything bordering on praise. He only wished that her had got there in time to save their parents…

* * *

><p>The Warman Sergeant tapped on the door. "All clear, Gholam-Killer," he called. Kiam scowled again. The Sergeant should really be reporting to <em>her<em>!

Outside, a heavy jumper had arrived to take the _Aiel_-children back to the safety of the main-encampment, surrounded as it was by wardings, minefields and shocklance emplacements. Each holding a small hand in one of theirs – Kiam noticed that the _Aiel_-children did not seem to mind the Lightborn's claws anymore than she did – Kiam and the Lightborn led the _Aiel_-children from the jo-car and across the grass, now bare of _Da'shain _corpses at least, though there were plenty of dead Trollocs remaining. The _Aiel_-children solemnly examined the slaughtered Beastmen as they walked past, either holding hands with Kiam and the Lightborn, or trailing close behind. And one of the children whispered something to the others;

"See, the claws of Tashanda cut deep." This in reference to a dead Trolloc on its back with a particularly nasty set of parallel slices striped across its chest, the wounds filled with dark, drying Shadow-blood. Kiam's brow furrowed. _Tashanda?_

The jumper crouched on its landing-gear, more sympathetic War-Sisters waiting on board to take the _Aiel_-children under their wings. But the children did not embark straight away. Instead, they turned in a solemn group, dropped gracefully to their knees and bowed their heads to the Lightborn! Kiam looked at him. He seemed embarrassed.

"Thank-you for saving us, Nightwatcher," the _Aiel_-children chorused, "we shall keep your little-covenant!" Each solemnly raised a finger and traced an inverted triangle in the air.

The Lightborn said nothing in response to this, though looked uncomfortable, waiting until the jumper rose with its small cargo before shouting; "very well – but just make sure that you eat your greens!" Kiam blinked.

"We will, Nightwatcher."

"We will eat our greens."

"And be obedient also."

Their high-pitched, childish voices faded up into the sky as the heavy jumper lifted into the air and drifted away. The Lightborn watched them go, smiling.

"Little covenant?" Kiam enquired.

The Lightborn grinned. "It is between them and me, Kiam Sedai," he said apologetically, "and I am not even sure if _I_ am included in that."

Kiam crossed her slim arms. "You excel at ambiguity, Lightborn. What exactly transpired between you and those children?"

"Nothing! I just made up a story to tell them, and promised that I would watch over their sleep. That is all."

Kiam could see that she would get no more information out of him on the subject. _Nightwatcher? _"Well, in any event, it seems that you have yet another name to add to all the others," commented Kiam, then adding that name; "Nightwatcher!"

The Lightborn shrugged. "And will you use _that _name to my face now instead, Kiam Sedai?"

"Of course not! Do not be absurd." Kiam smiled, an oddly warm smile for her. "I am no _Aiel_-child, it is not my right to use that name. You will always be 'Lightborn' to me, Lightborn! See that you watch over their sleep well."

Kiam glided back to her jumper. She heard the Lightborn speak, behind her.

"Oh, I will Kiam Sedai, that I will…"

Kiam smiled, to herself this time. The Lightborn was not the only one capable of invention. Perhaps she would make up some of her _own_ stories for the children?


	6. Feir and the Gholam

_**Gleeman Bob writes: **this is not a story from before when the Last Lightborn entered the stasis box in which he slept his long sleep, but it takes place a few years before the events in He Sleeps Under the Hill, so it is at least a tale from prior to his emergence. it introduces a new character who will figure prominently in the sequel, In the Land of the Madmen. and her Gholam. I wish I had my own Gholam, what fun adventures we would have together! no, not really. _

_Walk in the Light! _

* * *

><p><strong>Feir and the Gholam<strong>

Feir and the Gholam crouched by the boulder, watching the Madman walk slowly along through the wasteland, still a distant speck but getting gradually larger. He had not seen them yet, but sooner or later, he assuredly would.

"Do you want to do it or shall I?" asked Feir, in a bored tone of voice.

"Toss a coin," said the Gholam, flatly.

"I do not possess a coin… was that supposed to be a joke, Gholam?"

"Yes."

"Honestly, Gholam, sometimes I despair of you. Whose turn is it?"

"Yours."

"Liar! Lying, lazy Gholam. I do not remember, but I expect that you _are_ lying when you say that it is my turn. As usual. Hmph. No coin…"

"Rock, paper, scissors."

"No, you cheat."

"I do not cheat."

"Yes you _do_, you look at my hands and do not make your move until you can see what mine shall be. You are a _big_ cheat, Gholam."

The Gholam arranged its lips into the approximation of a smile.

"A cheat… _and_ a liar." Feir's tone was decisive.

The Gholam narrowed its blank, dark eyes. "You are fat."

"You see? _Another_ lie. Anyone can see from looking at me that I am not remotely fat."

The Gholam did not choose to respond, staring instead at the approaching Madman. He was getting steadily closer… but not steadily enough.

"I am hungry," the Gholam said.

"Go and get him then. But I shall be very cross with you if you kill this one, Gholam. _I_ am hungry too. No killing, this time."

"I did not mean to kill that last one. His head hit a rock when he fell."

"Hmph."

Silence.

"Gholam?"

A longish pause, then, grudgingly;

"What."

"Don't you ever miss it?"

"Miss it?"

"You know… don't you ever miss being able to kill people… you know, on purpose and not just by accident?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Liar."

"I do not lie."

"Yet another lie! Honestly, Gholam, you must think me stupid!"

"You are not stupid."

"Thank-you, Gholam."

"But you _are _fat."

"Honestly, Gholam! _Two_ thoughts occur to me – firstly, I have seen the way you look at them when I finish them off and I _know_ that you would _so_ much rather be doing it yourself – and _I_ would _so_ much rather you be doing it also, by the way."

"That is not true on either count. You are the liar."

"No, _you_ are. And secondly, I know _damned_ well-"

"You should not say that word, Young Mistress."

Feir laughed abruptly, an odd, yipping sound. "I _love_ it when you do that!"

The Gholam frowned a little. It knew what was coming.

"Damn!" said Feir.

"You should not say that word, Young Mistress."

"Damn, damn, damn!" added Feir.

"You should not say that word, Young Mistress. You should not say that word, Young Mistress. You should not say that word, Young Mistress."

Feir chuckled softly. "Father taught you to say it _just_ like old Ledrin always did… _just like him!_" Then, she too frowned. "You interrupted me, Gholam. I hate interruptions … what was I saying?"

"Saying that you were fat."

"Honestly, Gholam! The other thing is-"

"The Madman is closer now, he will see us soon."

"I _told_ you not to interrupt me! Disobedient Gholam! Wicked Gholam!"

"You said you hated interruptions. You did not order me to not interrupt you."

"Hmph. Stand on your head, Gholam."

The Gholam promptly stood on its head, balancing with smooth grace, pale hands flat on the ground to either side of its blank, dark-eyed face. Feir nodded with satisfaction. "There, that is so very much better. Just as Father used to say of you; 'a place for every Gholam, and every Gholam in its place.' "

"Fat. What of the Madman?"

"Oh, he shan't notice us until he's right on top of us, they never do. They aren't accustomed to people just waiting for them to arrive."

"We are not people."

"So, Gholam – you _do_ tell the truth occasionally!"

The Gholam just shrugged its thin shoulders, which, since it was standing on its head, should have been difficult. The Gholam managed it well enough, though.

"I suppose they're more used to people running away from them," Feir mused.

"Fat people like you cannot run fast."

"If I let you stop balancing on your head, will you stop lying about me being fat for at least until _after_ we have eaten?"

"Perhaps."

"That will have to do, I suppose. Stop standing on your head, Gholam."

The Gholam stopped standing on its head and smoothly returned to its crouching posture beside Feir. They watched the Madman.

"I'm famished," muttered Feir under her breath, blinking her pale eyes slowly. She turned to the Gholam and poked it accusingly with a long-nailed, slender finger. "Yes of course, that was the other thing I was going to say! Big lying Gholam! It was clever of Father to make you take the Oath – say it, Gholam!"

"I may not harm a human or Ogier except in protection of the existence of my Mistress, or in protection of my own…" The Gholam trailed-off. It scowled.

"And the _other_ part, Gholam?" asked Feir, innocently. The Gholam should not have been able to sigh, but Feir had taught it to do that as well. The Gholam sighed. A surprisingly convincing sound that carried great weariness.

"All manner of Shadow-wrought and Friends of the Dark are to be exterminated whenever feasible. I am a silly Gholam. I am a stupid Djinn. I went to assassinate Chaime Kufer Mors, Aes Sedai, Constructor of the Lightborn, but became trapped in a bottle instead. Praise the Creator. Shai'tan is a fool."

Feir had already burst into a peel of her strange, yipping laughter half-way through this, though she had heard it many times before. Father had had such a wonderful sense of humour – not only capturing and reconditioning a Gholam, but teaching it to say all sorts of amusing phrases, triggered by bizarre stimuli! Hilarious!

Feir did not really have feelings or emotions, as a human would understand them, but even so, she _missed_ Father. He had been so diverting, his stock of experiences and memories so rich and fulfilling. They had shared the exact same sense of humour.

"All hail the Great Lord of the Dark, down with the Creator, you are fat," the Gholam added, of its own volition. It usually said something rude after she made it repeat its Oath. But just the one Oath. Feir scowled, her arched, russet eyebrows drawing down over pale eyes. The Gholam just looked at her coldly.

"I am _not_ fat, Gholam! If _only_ Father had had the sense to make you take the Truth Oath as well as the other ones!"

The Gholam said nothing, but it smiled its thin smile again.

"You didn't like Father, did you?" Feir stated, though she made it sound like a question, despite already knowing the answer.

"No. I did not." The Gholam frowned.

"Fair enough, I suppose. Not many people did…"

"I am not people."

"That you most certainly are _not_, Gholam."

"And neither are you."

" 'And neither are you, _Mistress!_' "

"And neither are you, Mistress."

"That is better. Why did Father have to saddle me with so disrespectful a Gholam? Hmph."

"The Madman is-"

"I am not blind, Gholam! I can perfectly well _see_ that he's noticed us. Wait here. And it's your turn _next_ time!"

"I very much hope that the Madman does not kill you, fat Mistress." The Gholam always said something like that when it was her turn, which, to be fair, it was.

"Liar!"

"Fat."

* * *

><p>The Stone God watched as the young woman rose from the rocks to his left and strode unconcernedly out to meet him. He distantly wondered why she was not fleeing in terror. She was tall for a woman, clad in a ragged maroon dress, her feet bare. The nails on her fingers and toes were long, as was her hair, a russet crest that swept back from a high, white forehead and down her back, held in a loose braid. Oddly, her ears rose to slight points, clinging to the sides of her skull. Her eyes were very pale. She wore a slight smile as she approached. Her companion watched from beside a boulder, a slight, dark-eyed woman wearing loose trews and a patched shirt of black cloth. Neither seemed to be scared, which was odd. The Stone God raised his hands to destroy them… but his weaves fell apart even as he cast them, shattering and splintering all around him. He blinked, lowering his hands. <em>That<em> had never happened before. He wondered what to do next…

The tall, vulpine female continued pacing towards him. "Hello, Madman," she called out, conversationally, in what the Stone God recognised as an archaic dialect of the Old Tongue. "I am _dreadfully_ sorry for what I am about to do to you…" her smile widened, her small, white teeth rather sharp-looking, "…but after all, a girl has to eat."

* * *

><p>The Madman did not struggle, seemed more bemused than angry. Feir knelt with her legs astride his torso, pinning him to the ground by his shoulders. She smiled down at him. The Madman regarded her contemptuously. He was dressed in rags, his hair and beard filthy and matted, but managed contempt very well, even so.<p>

"I AM A GOD," he declared loudly, sounding as though he believed it.

Feir sighed. "I don't even know what a 'god' is." She wrinkled her nose. The Madman stank. "Why do you Madmen always say that you are gods?" She didn't expect a coherent answer, and did not receive one in any event.

"I AM THE STONE GOD! I WILL DESTROY YOU!"

"No you won't, and you're _not_ the stone god you big liar, I met him a couple of moons ago and he did not look one bit like you. Besides, I ate him! And gave what I did not want to my Gholam, as I always do… I ate the stone god, just like I'm going to eat you, Madman! What do you say to that?"

What he said to that was depressingly familiar. "I AM THE STONE GOD NOW! I TOOK THE STONE GOD'S NAME AFTER I HEARD HE WAS SLAIN BY THE QUEEN OF THE FOX-DAEMONS-" the Madman blinked, then in a different voice, with one of the thick, local accents, said; "thank Creator! You _are_ Fox-daemon Queen! Quick, end it before he comes back- SILENCE, PIG! WHO SAID THAT YOU MIGHT SPEAK? STONE GOD WILL KILL THE QUEEN OF THE FOX-DAEMONS AND ALL OF HER PEOPLE – STONE GOD SHALL CRUSH YOU!"

Feir pouted. "No you shan't. And my Gholam will give you such a bad N'zoarese-burn on your wrist if you even try it, phoney stone god! Can't you Madmen ever make up interesting names for yourselves? Alright, that's enough conversation, you are boring, Madman, even the Gholam is less boring than you."

"Thank-you," said the Gholam, which had come over to watch.

"HARLOT! UNBELIEVER! SHE WHO CONSORTS WITH-" The rest was muffled beneath Feir's hands. The Madman's dark eyes glared furiously up at her.

"Yes, well, it has been lovely talking to you, Madman, though actually I am just being polite, it has been a bit of a chore to be honest…" Feir sighed again.

The Gholam made a grumbling noise. Why did the Mistress always have to have bizarre conversations with her food? She was just like her Father, the Traitor, always toying with people, all those cat and mouse conversations after dark…

Feir heard the noise. "Hmph. Sounds like I have a hungry gholam to feed. Well, goodnight, sweet Madman. Don't be cross, I am doing you a favour, really I am."

Feir leant forward over the Madman, inhaling, her eyes widening, pupils stretching. The Madman, who thought he was the Stone God (except in those brief lucid moments they occasionally had where you briefly heard the voice of the person who they used to be before they began to channel and went insane) was unable to threaten her further because after his last comment, Feir had decided to press both of her long nailed, long fingered hands down over his mouth. She was much stronger than she looked, he was a rabbit gripped in the jaws of… something that likes to eat rabbits. And to eat _saidin_ also… but not _saidar_, Feir could not digest the stuff. Part of Father's Design. She was a device to use against male channellers only, after all.

As she often did when considering her provenance, Feir tugged the bodice of her dress out a little with her teeth, then glanced down at the red diamond shape tattooed on her left breast… it shone faintly in the fading sunlight. Her Light-mark always reminded her of what she was. A weapon.

When Feir had eaten her fill of Tainted _saidin_, the Dark One's touch on it giving it added savour, she cut the comatose Madman's throat with the ancient, Power-wrought bronze blade that Father had given her on the day he told her what she was. It had to be bronze, she could not touch iron, even momentary contact with the metal gave her severe burns which took a long time to heal. Feir rose and turned to the Gholam, which, as usual, was practically licking its lips. _Yuck!_

"You may feed, Gholam," she allowed, graciously. The Gholam eagerly knelt beside the twitching Madman. Feir did not care to watch what the Gholam did next, so she turned her back, ignoring the wet, lapping sounds whilst gazing out across the shattered wasteland. A range of huge, smoking volcanoes in the far distance. Closer; the ruins of ancient edifices. Slurping noises came from behind her. She grimaced. Though she supposed it was no worse than what _she_ did, really. Certainly messier, though.

"Finished."

Feir turned and gazed down at the Gholam for a moment, and an odd smile twisted her lips. The Gholam looked up at the high-cheek-boned, pointed face of its Mistress, with blank, soul-less eyes. It licked the blood from its chin with a long tongue.

"Fat," it said.

Feir laughed delightedly, the odd, high-pitched, yipping sound she always produced when amused. "Honestly Gholam!" And she ruffled the Gholam's hair with what might almost have been affection. "Come along," she then declared, "let us away… we should find somewhere sheltered to sleep for the night."

"And build a nice fire," added the Gholam.

"_Gholam!_ You _know_ I detest that sort of thing."

"Yes. You cannot even bring yourself to say the word."

"Yes I can. 'Fire.' _There_."

"Your face twisted when you said it. You are afraid of fire. You are a yellow chicken."

"Tsk. Foolish, chattering Gholam. Do not speak again until I say you may."

The Gholam closed its mouth. The Mistress would tell it to speak again sooner or later. She always did. She was lonely, out here, in the centre of the Island, with no-one else to talk to except for the occasional Madman, and she certainly never spoke to _them_ for long.

Feir sighed. She was lonely in the Island's centre, with no-one to talk to except for the bloody Gholam. And the occasional Madman, but they never seemed to say anything much back after their weaves failed, just mostly screamed, or made foolish threats. "I hope the Sign comes soon," she muttered, "it will be nice to meet my Brother and have someone to talk to at last, _besides_ a boring old Gholam."

It was getting dark. Feir's keen ears had already detected the distant, yipping calls of a pack of the _real_ Fox-daemons, who certainly were not _her_ people, who certainly were not people at all. Not that they had anything to fear from the likes of _them_… unlike the male channellers that their packs constantly fought with, or anyone else insane enough to wander into the centre, which made the Great Blight look like Comelle sea-side on a pleasant day, she considered. Though she had never seen the Blight, or much of anywhere else for that matter… she wondered what Shayol Ghul was like? She would like to go right up to the Bore itself, and tell the Dark One all about how Father had avoided his gaze all those years! Father would have liked it if she had done something like that…

But the Fox-daemon packs out hunting the night, even though they were presumably her distant (very distant!) cousins… she had nothing to fear from them. Even had they not known what she and her Gholam were capable of doing to them (she had provided a few demonstrations when first she came here) the Fox-daemons had long since stopped trying to kill her. It was not for this reason she wished to avoid them, she just did not like the way they formed a ring around her at the edge of the darkness and stared. When there was nowhere to shelter, she let the Gholam build a fire sometimes, though stayed as far away from it as she could, not looking at the horrible flames that burned into her vision and gave her that panicky feeling… No, it was the way the pack would just crouch there in the flickering shadows, looking at her with those big, pale eyes… ignoring the Gholam unless it moved, in which case they would glare at it warily and bare their teeth, but apart from this, staring at her with a horrid kind of devotion, even awe…

"I'm not your bloody Queen," Feir growled under her breath.

Feir set off toward one of the ruins that looked promising. She was tired, but at least she wasn't hungry anymore. "Come along, Gholam." The Gholam followed, silently. "Yes, let us repair indoors… the night-time hereabouts is not safe, after all… no, not safe, even for a pair of monsters like us."


End file.
